Calling Peter Mandelson a liar
Peter Mandelson says he regrets saying that the Labour party was ‘intensely relaxed about people getting filthy rich’.
From The Grauniad:
Lord Mandelson has admitted he is no longer “intensely relaxed about people getting filthy rich as long as they pay their taxes”, given rising inequality and stagnating middle-class incomes brought about by the damaging downsides of globalisation.
Almost a decade and a half after making the remarks, which were seen as characterising the Labour government’s embrace of free markets and the City, Mandelson said he was “much more concerned” about inequality than when he made first made his comments to a US industrialist in California in 1998.
This isn’t, in itself, especially interesting beyond one of New Labour’s key architects admitting he got something wrong, which is fairly rare.
What’s interesting to me is that I interviewed Mandelson in 1998 and quizzed him about the wisdom of those remarks while representing Hartlepool – a depressed post-industrial north-east town with high unemployment and low ‘filthy rich’ rates – as MP (the full story is here).
Unsurprisingly he bridled at the question – and then denied flat out that he’d said it. I knew that he’d almost certainly said it, so I asked for a clarification. “You’ve never said that?”.
“No. Next question.”
These were the days before the internet was much use as a research tool, so I’d trawled newspapers archives and stacks of various political mags to find some interesting questions to ask Mandelson – I’d seen the quote referred to a few times but couldn’t trace where it had first been used or who had first reported it, despite talking to a reporter who’d written it (he’s copied it form another report), so it remained – like the mushy pea story – something that was probably true but plausibly deniable.
Mandelson remains the single most unpleasant interviewee – and one of the more unpleasant people – I’ve ever met and he appeared to take great delight in trying to rough up and obstruct a student reporter simply because they’d nailed him with one of his own dim-witted remarks.
So I take some small measure of satisfaction, the best part of 15 years later, to call Peter – now Lord – Mandelson, in this one regard, a liar (I still have the tapes).
That politicans tell lies and, let’s be honest, wholly inconsequential ones at that, is not headline news either. But on behalf of my 19-year-old self I’d just like to call Peter out on that lie – and for being a total dick.
Office working is not remotely working
This is the absolute last word on office work and sums up everything I have to say on the subject.
It’s by Jason Fried, the founder of 37 Signals, which makes various nifty little ‘how to work together’ programmes that I sometimes use. He has a remarkable name but I’m even more impressed by his views on the tyranny of the office.
I wish everyone who worked in an office would watch this.
The five types of Facebook updates
There are only five types of Facebook status update. That’s a fact. There’s no actual evidence to support that claim, but it’s a fact nonetheless.
I’ve whittled it down to five types by looking over my status updates over the last year; they all fit perfectly into one of the five types of update I’ve identified. Oh, there are sub-categories and the like, but it’s all pretty much there. Here they are:
And that’s it. Think about every banal Facebook update you’ve ever seen. I guarantee they lot into one of these divisions.
See if you can slot my updates into one of the five categories. And, if you want bonus Internets, see if you can identify all the pop-culture references.
The five types of Facebook updates
Now THAT’S sarcasm…
like a kestrel having sex above a television set
………………………………….fuckstick?
has not impressed the bloke from Go West
Went to Jodrell Bank. Closed. Jodrell Wank
Went to Jodrell Bank today; thought of Logopolis
I’m going to thrash you to with in a inch of your life.. and then.. i’m going to have you
Guess what. I lied. Guess what. So did I. But I lied… Twice. … I didn’t think of that
I’m not a frying pantheist!
Bowman is reading out the bass hunter sex charges to me while the India/SA one-sayer is on telly. A chilling vision of how things could have worked out very differently.
Fillet o fish for my wife
if you don’t love me now you will never love me again
5 nights in 5 consecutive beds. Not as exciting as it sounds
The King’s Speech contains ‘strong language in a speech therapy context’
Ross Noble is on stonking form on I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue
Which way to the bloodbath?
Would you smash it?
Where in shitting crikey is my nose?
A starling is running through it’s list of impersonations at St Michaels Station like a sturnidae Rory Bremner
I don’t like to take naps. I don’t like to wake up more than once a day. ‘Cause when I first wake up I get that shock of who I am and everything. I… I really don’t like to do that more than once a day.
got telephones for eyes
Whatever happened to Tiggy Ovington?
it’s the weekend. i want fags, sleep, booze, dr who, pub with friends, good food, culture, telly, buzzards, walks and sex. Up yours, work
points with mute distaste
whenever i watch Kill Bill I have a very strong mental image of Quentin Tarantino frantically, furiously wanking his naff little cock off
a relentless and merciless morale-killer
like a battenberg owned by Jesus that can miraculously talk
No word can describe how tired I am. So why am I not in bed?
I once had a dream so I packed up and split for the city
Crushed like a new potato in Jamie Oliver’s kitchen
Just attempted to move my eyes down page of magazine by moving mouse on desk
No exclamation marks. Anywhere. Ever. Excise them from your mind. Do not use exclamation marks.
Just saw Don Horton on Bargain Hunt
it is what it is
i’m a tiger when my dander’s up
Adam and Joe back on 6Music? Excellent!
The new Greggs chicken tikka slice is quite, quite horrible
promises to aliens have no validity
Ever heard of the double bluff?
He who laughs last… laughs longest
And the Rodneys are queueing up… God forbid
Have you ever retired a human by mistake?
Has exchanged contracts
Tropical hot dog night
I reserve a window seat at table, facing in the quiet carriage. my seat is non facing, aisle, no table. And two guards talking loudly! In the quiet carriage!
Hey you sat behind me on the train. Close your fucking mouth when you’re eating crisps, you fucking animal.
Logopolis. Murray Gold is shit.
Do you want the genital cuff?
“Now!” …. something something something. That brilliant “Now!” speech…
all my facts about lighthouses are wrong
misses his fat, lazy, stupid cat
General Ham?
Darkness outside; inside, the radio’s prayer; Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre
Botham: We’re too straightforward with the bowling. Botham: Sometime we try too many things with the ball. The man’s an idiot.
I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you stop using the word ‘banter’.
This is the day your life will surely change
and they catch him and they say he’s mental
Novel introduction to training provider assessor: “I do wear a hearing aid and I am slightly deaf, so as a result I may come across as rude, sharp and aggressive.” Might pinch that.
demure…. sleazy…
I dreamed of you last night, You had a different face, Or maybe just a haircut
A man told me to beware of 33
A funky ball of tits from outer space
Ever see a photo of yourself and think ‘who the fuck is that old man?
Editing: -Hi – do you want to do a quick Q+A? -Sure, here’s 3,000 words of formless text
Wonder if anyone’s ever opened a furniture shop called Ottoman Empire
Don’t know if I’ve ever been so disbelieving of a death as Lis Sladen’s. Sad.
Today I was filmed angrily throwing an ice cream off a cliff
I went to Rotherham and longed for Threads
will you just read grazia and bake your stupid cakes?
Over the years I’ve come to regard you as people I… met
Enjoying the high bombardment of positive ions in the atmosphere
Word of the day is… QILF
First game of the season for Sefton Park CC – I am the oldest man in the team. And feel like it
What about Basil…where’s my snake?
If I’d got on the electoral role in time I’d be voting yes to AV today. Have you seen the No camp? Baddies, by any stretch of the imagination
Drove a monster truck over a police car; fired a bonnet-mounted paintball gun. Two more bucket list items ticked off
On the receiving end of such a powerful headbonk from the cat that scalding tea jolted all over my chest
Are the red satin sheets a bridge too far?
What’s your name? Who’s your Daddy?
It seems as if I’m going to have to Goto war with Matressman.co.uk – clearly they do not understand my power of teh internets
like butter scraped over too much bread
My cat’s snoring
I’m officially the 25th most important influencer in the UK automotive industry on Twitter. #winninginsomesmallinconsequentialway
Odd day. Started with a hangover. Stood around in the rain for hours. Got hit in the chin by a cricket ball. Good episode of Doctor Who. Ended with hangover.
If airport departure lounge screens said ‘wait miserably and impotently’ instead of ‘eat drink shop and relax’ I’d respect them a lot more
Classic French fare last couple of days. Foie gras, lobster, strong coffee and fags
Arrived at CDG in plenty of time for flight home. Five hours, to be precise
Sickly sweet Dr Hook hot lovin’ schmaltz or disturbing sexual threat? You decide: And when your body’s had enough of me and I’m laying flat out on the floor When you think I’ve loved you all I can, I’m gonna love you a little bit more
Gave Beau some catnip. Tried rolling around in it myself. Nothing.
……………………………………………………. …fuckstick?
A three crackpipe problem…
Warm copies make everything better
I don’t give a fuck about Kenny Dalglish!
The revolution will be streamed
All the fucking internet warriors would be first against the wall in my revolution. Digital shithouses
Tonight I’ve been walking in the rain. Someone’s been talking and I’ve got the blame.
Eeeeee!
If you had to be a participant in horror film The Mist or horror film The Fog, which would you choose?
Is it just people in Hartlepool who call things ‘shan’?
What goes on in this town is none of your business
This episode of Panorama is like seeing Ted Maul berate Sainsbur McManus in Cowsick #fuckoffyoupatronisingtwats
Mentally hilarious
Just found the best ‘actual’ name ever among contacts: Quinton Drawbridge
distracted by kestrels
Looking over some old gaming ‘lance I did, with some suggestions for sone author-based spin-offs that never got off the ground: Salmanazars Rushdie’s Poolhall Madness; Ian McEwan’s Sim Asylum and Clare Rayner’s Colchester Rally Inferno. I don’t think I ever worked for Future again after this batch.
Think I’ll call myself Donald Twain
ants are unable to relax and enjoy life
An empty pride, a hopeless vanity, a dreadful arrogance, a stupefyingly futile conceit… but at least it’s something to hang on to
Driving through Cologne with an Argentinian and two French guys listening to It’s Raining Men on the radio
Choke on em
Now, eating monster munch in Huddersfield, three hours after watching Bargain Hunt in a Range Rover Sport on Saddleworth Moor and 14 hours after getting up to play cricket, I’m wondering what can possibly happen next. Really hope that’s not my epitaph
There are coal tits in my yard!
Bon chic bin genre
Overheard in Chichester station: ragamuffin behaving badly answers phone: “Yes I did. Yeeees! KFC Mum, alright?!”
A day of driving electric cars with Kryten. My job is nothing if not eclecti
Last week I bought two grand’s worth of Wimbledon tickets according to my bank account. That’s insult to injury.
I laughed at this quote from RHE Observer for about ten minutes. A biography of Bercow by the BBC journalist Bobby Friedman attributes his ambition and desire to get one over the likes of Cameron, in part, to the fact that he was bullied at school. He was teased for his small stature and fear of wasps.
And the fact that you don’t understand, Casts a shadow over this land.
Proffered a napkin by kindly but slightly disapproving lady, clearly recognising that a chap with mayonnaise in beard and eating a sandwich with failing structural integrity is clearly in trouble
Try taking a pot of Vaseline through security in a see-through plastic bag without feeling like a raging bum fetishist. Go on, just try.
Unaccountably covered in baby spiders
I am acing this edition of Catchphrase tonight
Lost cat. In Arthur Street. Black and white.
My cat came back after nine days. Pathetically grateful to the cat Gods.
You spell Robin with an I if it’s a boy. With an I. NOT a Y.
My favourite word has been, and always will be, ‘frot’.
Actual stage direction: “Dracula fucks wildly”
If my cat did status updates I reckon his latest would read ‘just got back from three hours of staring slightly to the left of other cats’
And now on BBC4, middle-aged men get to stare at Victoria Coren’s ginormous breasts while pretending to answer questions abouT hieroglyphics
What’s a cocoa shunter?
it’s some book week thing; this is genuinely the 5th sentence of the 56th page of the closest book to me: “Deciding that the strange apparition probably wasn’t dangerous, the guard took his hand off the blaster, and reached for his belt communicator – and collapsed in a heap as K9 promptly shot him down”
Just a little explosion!
Will’s Mum from Inbetweeners has done a nude scene? Oh good God.
A Succulent Violin, Vaccine Unlit Soul, Vulcanise Cunt Oil #lucienlaviscountanagrams
Surely a train journey is the only time you’d drink a pint of coffee?
Frigging hell an ex is on the Great British Bake Off. This is like the start to a Nick Hornby novel.
Had a flashback – again – to the time I asked for a ‘scotch on the rocks’
What The Fuck? “The assailant can be seen to place his head down by the victim. He starts eating away at his face and his head. The male has had his two ears bitten off, part of his nose bitten off and half of his lip bitten off.The attack reminded me of a lion wrenching the flesh off a gazelle.”
i know now why you cry… but it is something i can never do….
there’s still some of the same stuff we got yesterday
Friday morning immediately brings an exceptionally loud Irish girl. Fuck you Friday morning
Spin spin spin the wheel of justice; see how fast the bastard turns!
On this day in 2010 i wrote ‘I hate Sebastian Coe!’
Text from brother: Which would you rather be called: Alan Viscount, Phillip Bourbon or Robin Custard-Cream?
Seem to have injured my neck but don’t know how. Mindful of Larry David’s views on this.
1AM stop-cock traumas – make your own jokes up
If anyone ever mentions the ‘wow factor’ to me ever again I’ll punch them in the teeth
FUCK OFF TOUGH MUDDER
Will the internet ever get tired of feeding me idiots to destroy?
Walked up a mountain today. It rained. Then we walked back down a waterfall.
Thinking about it it’s hard to decide on a favourite moment from the stag. The Fabulous! morphsuit-clad Jamie Bowman emerging from the toilets at Stenhousemuir; the walk up a mountain that became a waterfall; seeing my mates ziplining down a swollen river; the merciless Platoon-like paintball massacre of the stag; the hydro-electric power station; or the violent midnight game of rugger where I flattened Jamie, thrashed the opposition and ended up giving my details to a WPC about half my age. And I didn’t even mention the Crab From Islamabad…
Larry. I like you. What’s not to like? Ah… You’re a Jew Excellent episode of Curb. I think I might offer myself out as a social assassin
Have seen an E Type and a Mark II Jag in last two days
Having gone to the countryside fir a few days’ holiday I now seem to be watching Embarrassing Bodies with my family
Loading up on carbs and getting an early night. Gotta be up at 2pm for the Grand Prix…
Ticketed for doing 80mph on a three-lane motorway? That’s gotta be pretty unlucky
I want a dulcitone
Today I bought a Three Colours: Red poster. When I got home the latest RSPB magazine was waiting for me. For a few minutes I was the most middle class person in the world
ALPHABETTI SPAGHETTI?!
Set in the near future, where robot boxing is a top sport, a struggling promoter feels he’s found a champion in a discarded robot
So, I've now got a motorsport licence. How could this possibly go wrong? Impossible to look at Wolverhampton without dreaming of hydrogen bombs exploding above it A 25-year-old Vauxhall Astra GTE nearly ended me today. But a dab of oppo and I was away Actual headline: MC Hammer to take on Google with rival search engine Dreams last night: a game of rugby in a WH Smiths a mile long; winning a marathon and being presented with some batteries as a prize; being exorcised by a catholic priest using a pub quiz machine. Your cod-Freudian analysis please Received a letter from the vets. Beau is now officially a 'mature or senior' cat. Wonder how long before I get a similar letter from the doctors. i've started writing an article at 11.49 - I'm a fool to myself Lots of best man speech advice things say five minutes max. I'm in serious trouble And so to the wedding of Jamie and Becky. I expect they're both straightening their hair as I type "Yes it's true. This man has no dick." Got train to St michaels; walked home; walked back to St michaels to pick up car; drove home Lid on train: "I'm really tired; I'm still asleep. It must be the hour going back..." Personally my money was on it being the smack In fairness, Pete Tranter's sister is hot To Portugal to drive an electric car tomorrow - and how many people can say that? I've missed these dingy Heathrow hotel rooms. Long couple of days. Today comprised: 2 electric cars, a Nissan Cube, a flight, a train and a bus. Welcomed home by some fucking idiot dog walker who left a number of bundles of dog shit, like small pagan offerings, in my empty recycling crate New Bravissimo catalogue. The postal service's way of telling me the woman I bought my house off had massive norks. Shan as It's mischievous, not mischieveeous, dammit Today I piloted the TARDIS with Terrance Dicks I think the unions have chosen entirely the wrong grounds on which to base this fight, and played in Tory hands as a result, but given some of the disgraceful shit from the Tories today, I'm happy to aim an emphatic 'fuck you' in their general direction Taking Egg-Shaped Fred for tea Dear Facebook - I have zero interest in following CEOs of silicon valley digital agencies. Here are people I would follow: Tom Baker, JJ Burnel, Geoff Boycott, Mick Foley, Tony Benn, umm.... Paul Daniels you'reacockyou'reacockyou'reacock Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall is spitroasting nine birds on More 4. Before the watershed too. "One of your friends read the article 'I'm still a virgin as my boyfriend couldn't penetrate me' on the Guardian" Beautiful South's Perfect 10: a song about fat sex that I utterly despise and was once referred to by Simon Hoggart as 'the best pop song of the year'. The daft twat. Hello Facebook. Why the chuff would I wan to know that my friends are posting 'about Christmas'? The Toyota Land Cruiser was known as the Toyota BJ when it first went on sale in the UK "How about a detective who dangles a piece of string?" Shit. Twat. Fuck. ****. You made me do that Auto Correct. You hear me? YOU MADE ME Neil Morrissey dislikes nouvelle cuisine #bbc2 Stupid like a fox I'm givin' this whole thing as a promotional expense, that's why I invited clients instead of friends Ah, the arrangement of the First Nowell that's used on The Box of Delights on Radio 4. Beautiful Bedded, knobbed and bumsticked BBC4 doc on decay potentially fascinating, but seems to consist of a man constantly expressing surprise at old food going off Hilarious famed Hartlepool insult: You look like a new-born pig
Privacy is for paedos
I’ve watched the hackgate/NewsCorp/Leveson circus with a fascinated mixture of horror, revulsion and amusement. It’s been something of a car crash spectacle, only onlookers didn’t hack the phones belonging to the relatives of those expiring in the inferno, stick a camera into the faces of dying people or hound the relatives of the dead afterwards.
Seeing the likes of Brooks and the Murdochs get some measure of comeuppance has been vaguely satisfying, but I don’t think a lot will change. One lot of dodgy newsroom execs will get the boot; another load, steeped in the dubious cultures of modern national newsrooms, will take their place.
The new I'm A Celebrity cast lines up at the Leveson Inquiry
What may happen is that the ridiculous Press Complaints Commission might finally shuffle off to a Soho restaurant for good, in that it should be clear to even the most swivel-eyed hack that it’s permanently fucked; rather like a semi-senile octogenarian constantly befuddled by what his avaricious minions are up to behind his back.
The revelations over what families such as the Dowlers and McCanns were put through should cause everyone who calls himself a journalist to cringe with the awfulness of it all. The press has been out of control for much of the last decade; each jaw-dropping anecdote about hacking, blagging or other criminal behaviour another black mark against an industry capable of so much good.
Yesterday at the Leveson inquiry absolutely blew that away though, with the testimony of Paul McMullan, a man who has only existed previously in cartoonish representations of the most archetypally amoral journalist going. McMullan virtually admitted, without shame, that he had broken the law in many and varied ways more times than he could remember – and went on to explain that absolutely anything that sold newspapers was justified.
I’d suggest that the combination of massive, extra-legal power, backed up by lorry-loads of available cash – essentially the tools of tabloid journalists over the last ten years – coupled with the belief that virtually any behaviour, and any story, is justifiable is a pretty worrying proposition.
McMullan didn’t seem to think so. “Privacy is for paedos,” he averred, tucking his press card into a hatband, scowling at a Muslim and knocking one out to a page three picture of Lucy Pinder’s tits. `
“Circulation defines what is the public interest,” he continued, lighting up a fag, breaking wind and slurping on a pint of warm beer. “I don’t see it’s the job of anyone else to force the public to read this or that.”
The public interest. Have three words ever been so misused to justify such scandalous behaviour? To a new generation of hacks and hackettes, this new definition of “the public interest” happens to dovetail with “what newspapers want to publish”. Jon Venables’ new identity; Kate McCann’s private diaries; Charlotte Church’s tits – public interest.
These things cannot possibly be in any recognised definition of “the public interest”; the only “interest” involved here is self-interest. Over the last 40 years journalists have started to fantasise a bizarre superhero role for themselves, where they bring down druglords, bent politicans and have become crusaders for free speech and the Great British Public.
In some ways they have – and the right of the press to muddy what constitutes legal and illegal conduct in the pursuit of uncovering corruption, mass illegality and behaviour inimical to civil society has been, unofficially, enshrined.
McMullan just about stopped short of admitting to – but happily defended – a wide spectrum of illegal activities, such cultivating contacts with police, being involved in high-speed car chases, entering private buildings under false pretences, theft, telephone hacking and using private detectives to ‘blag’ information.
Many of these activities fall into a kind of grey area in the PCC’s codes of practice – and statutory law. The Guardian only managed to bring down Jonathan Aitken – one of the greatest instance of investigative journalism in our country’s history – by faking a letter from the House of Commons. Illegal? Unethical? Perhaps – but there’s a peculiar ‘ends justify the means’ aspect to journalism in this country.
In some instances they do. Most of the great political scoops of the tabloid era will have been broken with some assistance from legally dubious methods. If that work exposes corruption, illegality or double standards of those in public life then I can see a justification.
But somehow “the public interest” has been extended to actors, sportspeople, musicians, reality TV people – even the families of those in the public eye; basically anyone famous enough to arguably be of interest to people who buy newspapers. Tabloids tell us they’re the guardians of truth and honesty and give us tawdry sex-and-drugs splashes concerning people like Joe Calzaghe and Kate Middleton’s uncle; the very reason the News of the World was frequently referred to as the News of the Screws.
McMullan’s only apparent regret was that he once discovered Denholm Elliot’s daughter – homeless, drug-addicted and working as a prostitute – took her to his flat, reeled of some grimy topless photos of her and splashed her sad wreck of a life all over the weekend papers. A couple of years later she killed herself.
Some journos and editors cannot tell the difference any more between who’s a legitimate target and who isn’t. And their behaviour risks legislation, in response, that will make it harder for journalists to legitimately investigate legitimate targets.
In taking advantage of the grey areas of what’s excusable as part of political and economic journalism – by exporting those cloak-and-dagger methods to tittle-tattle – they’ve probably made it easier for governments to muzzle the kind of journalists who exposed Jonathan Aitken, Robert Maxwell, Jeffrey Archer, Conrad Black and expenses-fiddling politicians.
That they can’t see it themselves, apart from a few notable exceptions, is worrying. They genuinely believe they have the right to do what they want in the pursuit of a story. That extends to deleting messages on Milly Dowler’s phone, causing her family to believe she was still alive when she was dead; and printing Kate McCann’s grief-filled private diaries, before going on to suggest the McCanns had sold their daughter for cash without a shred of evidence.
The hacking and the dubious provenance of the diaries – almost certainly both illegal – sold papers, runs the McMullan defence, therefore they were fair game. His testimony, while amusing, should do little to convince the general population that tabloid hacks aren’t the absolute scum of the Earth.
How did any of it support his view that the PCC does a good job, the press should remain free and that journos are sympathetic characters who are working in the “the public interest”? Not one jot; in fact his testimony was so batshit that there was apparently some discussion that it should be ignored completely.
Justice Leveson, currently overseeing what amounts to the most fascinating chat show ever broadcast, says that a free press represents “an essential check on all aspects of public life”. Certainly it does, but it’s become clear from the parade of celebs, tits, paedos, grief-mongering, jingoism and shrill hyperbole in many of the tabloids that it’s simply not doing that any more.
Nick Davies – whose horribly depressing book Flat Earth News is a must for any journos and has been circulated among every journo, by every journo, I know – says that it’s “incredibly difficult” to know where the public interest lies. That difficulty has become a cloak to protect dodgy journalists and covers a multitude of sins.
“[A]ny failure within the media affects all of us,” says Leveson. “At the heart of this inquiry, therefore, may be one simple question — who guards the guardians?”
That should send shock waves rippling through the media – and particularly the PCC. But they only have themselves to blame. For too long the cowboy journalists have bent rules designed to help the press expose wrongdoing in order to shaft anyone who enters into the same definition of “public interest” to which Paul McMullan subcribes.
“A balance must be struck between the freedom of the press and the rights of individuals to be treated fairly,” said Leveson. That the balance is hopelessly skewed is fairly clear from the first few days of the inquiry; that Leveson will feel compelled to act, given some of his statements thus far, seems equally clear.
How has this been allowed to happen? Because successive governments enter a Faustian pact with media moguls and their lackeys such as Murdoch, Brooks, Lord Rothermere, the Barclay Brothers, Paul Dacre and Richard Desmond – bestowing favours and turning blind eyes to the worst excesses.
The end result is a situation where the Prime Minister is best chums with two people described at the Leveson inquiry as “the scum of journalism”, complicit in a system that has the power to bring down politicians – or destroy any public figure – almost at a whim.
I wonder if Leveson has changed his mobile passcode.
RIP Steve Jobs
I learned how to use Photoshop and Quark XPress on a Mac II and frequently produced copy for the student newspaper on Mac Classics.
I was paid as a pagesetter and graphic designer on Bondi Blue G3s and Power Mac G4s.
I bought a used G3 from Future Publishing and then, a few years later, I inherited a band new eMac through Black + White (just about the only material gain we ever made).
I bought an iPod Nano, a iPod Touch and I have an iPhone. I still use an old Mac Mini at work sometimes.
Needless to say, I’m typing this on my MacBook – I’ve dropped it, twice, down a flight of stairs. It doesn’t have a mark on it. It doesn’t get viruses, it’s never crashed, it works with every device I’ve ever plugged into it. WiFi is a piece of cake. At night it glows, gently.
I bought and used all these devices cos I like them. The interfaces knock most other products into cocked hats; they’re faster than most competitors and they look much nicer.
Every home or work computer you came across before the G3 was a whirring, grey plastic box. Or worse, several grey whirring boxes. They were hideous, they were hard to use, they were frequently shit.
Macs changed all that. They became cool because designers, architects, illustrators and journos used them – and they used them because they were, by far, the best tools for the job. Those people were ‘early’ early adopters and they looked so smug because they knew something most people didn’t.
G3s made Macs more accessible and so much more desirable – and soon they all had iTunes built into them. So people bought iPods. But why carry an iPod and a phone around? The rest, they say…
I’m not blind to Apple’s faults. The proprietary software thing is awful; the Flash thing is infuriating; the sweatshop labour thing predictably depressing (Apple’s ads are bloody awful too, natch). But I love their products.
I have admired Steve Jobs too, without ever learning a huge amount about him. His clarity of purpose and thinking was obvious. His instincts appeared superhuman; his charisma undeniable.
I felt sad when I learned of is death, because any premature death is sad. His public battle against cancer was sometimes inspiring, sometimes uncomfortable. But I also felt sad because Apple’s rise has tracked with my adult life; there are many memorable moments in my life that I associate with various Apple products. Because of Steve Jobs.
I heard a Radio 4 Thought for the Day today and recognised the voice as Jobs’ – from his 2005 Stanford University address. It’s a good speech but it was the bit at the end about death that stood out – and was used in the Radio 4 clip.
It’s a brilliant example of Jobs’ philosophy – and a bittersweet coda to today’s news, and an era in my life and many others.
Cameron addresses UK riots
This is a riff on the MyDavidCameron meme I contributed some posters to last year.
Here’s the others I did:
Is Piers Morgan a twat?
I don’t follow Piers Morgan on Twitter because he’s a self-important blowhard hiding behind the pretence of being a simple wind-up merchant.
He’s like Wimbledon in the 80s but without the hardness. He’s like an internet warrior who’s been offered his own TV show. He’s not even a twat; he’s just a tit.
But he turns up with tiresome regularity on my Twitter feed, usually when people are RTing some tedious banter between him and Alan Sugar. More often the word ‘twat’ is associated’.
So, I got to wondering, just how often does Piers Morgan get called a twat on Twitter?
The answer, as far as I can work out, is once every 20 minutes or so. But don’t take my word for it, have a look below in this embedded Hootsuite search feed.
NB. This should refresh every ten minutes so think of it as a live insight into the world’s view of Piers. You might need to install Flash if you can’t see it.
The fickle world of the influencer list
It’s been a funny old week for me in the online world. First MotorTorque, which I curate, was named the 25th best Twitter influencer in the UK automotive industry, then AdTurds was named in the top 200 ad/marketing/PR blogs (Clarkson-like pause)… in the world.
That’s all quite heartening especially as AdTurds is little more than a hobby that I do virtually nothing promote (although I’ll no doubt be bumped off the latter next month, when 455 Soho-based bloggers submit their own websites to Brand Republic).
But, really, what do these lists tell us? Very little for my money. The Twitter auto industry list was compiled using Klout (a Twitter metric I have little faith in) and used some other UK auto industry-specific peer group list I didn’t know existed.
Those not on the latter didn’t find their way onto the list – and a fair few people rather took their bats home. Understandably to some extent; the list had Automotive PR (list compiled by… Automotive PR) at the top and featured a knowledgeable, friendly guy who does not work in the car industry in the top ten.
While it was an interesting experiment I’m not sure what we learned from it, beyond the thin skins of some journos. The last word on the whole affair, which somewhat dominated auto journo gossip last week, was this brilliant Downfall skit by Sam Burnett.
On the second front there’s an explanation of a more thorough methodology behind the Brand Republic 200 that appears, at first glance, much more comprehensive. However, some of the blogs that have been included haven’t been updated for a year. One has not been updated for over three years. Quite how they got through the filters I don’t know.
People compiling lists like this always add plenty of caveats to them. They’re not about quality or personal favourites and no list is comprehensive. Still, they’re likely to cop a lot of flack – from people not named in the list or unhappy with results or those who simply don’t think the numbers stack up; both lists I’ve recently featured in have qualified on both counts.
So, what’s in it for the compilers? Plenty of free, cheap publicity – at least 50 or 200 retweets or Facebook shares from those in the list and more from those wanting in – and an opportunity to style onesself as an industry expert. Cheap and easy copy…
And what of those named in these lists? Well, they’re a nice little ego boost but not much more besides in my opinion. MotorTorque gained a few Twitter followers and AdTurds had a very small increase in traffic – an inbound link here and there is always good too – but appearances on these lists amounts to little more to flattery.
Having said all of that I’ll be fuming next month when I’m not placed. Such is the fickle world of the influencer list.
Are attention spans waning – even on Twitter?
I noticed a splurge of new followers the other day, and a few new message from people telling me their experiences of Twitter.
This sort of thing happens every now and then when something I’ve written on the subject gets shared by a social media maven, or whatever the hell they’re calling themselves nowadays.
Sure enough something called Tweethelper and then TweetSmarter had send the link to my really, really simple guide to using Twitter out into the ether, where it got retweeted another 80 or so times that I can detect, probably more, and often by people wil six-figure follower, er, followings.
So I dived into analytics, expecting a deluge of traffic and some high bounce rates. The bounce rates were certainly there but the traffic? Around 600 hits that appeared to come from the shared Twitter links. 600 hits from 80 retweets? And, at a guess, a potential audience of around 200,000? Not a great return.
What does this say for Twitter’s ability to generate traffic? Not much. Could it be that, since businesses and spammers took to Twitter there’s a spot of link fatigue going on? Was it ever that useful?
I’ve become more and more sceptical about the ability of Twitter to generate significant traffic unless, perhaps, you have large followings already and really hammer the links.
Perhaps it’s another sign that people don’t really want much more than the usual internet diet of celebs, free stuff and sex – even on Twitter. And, already, people have started to filter out the stuff that’s not immediately of interest to them, like they did with display adverts.
So, if 140 chars isn’t enough for WILFers, where do we go from here?
Way of the gun
I wrote this in 2005, following the suicide of Hunter S Thompson, for Black+White magazine – a culture and ents guide in Liverpool I ran with Che Burnley and Ben Hau.
While B+W is still online, it’s crumbling into little bits so I thought I’d dig this article out and give it a wider audience. It’s six years to the day since Thompson concluded his odyssey.
Way of the Gun
Hunter S Thompson: Remembering the brutal odyssey of an outlaw journalist
The news that gonzo head honcho Hunter S. Thompson passed away last month, having shot himself in the head was not as surprising as it would if have been if the suicide in question had been, say, Barry Cryer. Thompson had reportedly gone into a decline following recent injuries and the reelection of George W Bush.
The manner of Thomspon’s death was wholly in keeping with the life he had led in recent years; as a virtual recluse in his fortified Aspen ‘compound’, where he amused himself firing guns, tending peacocks and spiking journalists’ drinks with psychedelic drugs. Indeed, in his sole meeting with Thompson – to discuss the proposed Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas… adaptation, which he was originally slated to direct – filmmaker Alex Cox remembers a “rude and fearful man.”
“He squandered his talent early (on two good books, Hells Angels and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas) and thereafter wrote little, and even less of consequence,” Cox told me.
“He was evidence that drugs, particularly alcohol, really do work their magic on people,” adds Cox.
There can’t be much doubt that the combined effects of narcotics and alcohol abuse took its toll on Thompson’s mind and creativity over the years, but to overlook the body of work, and his impact on American literature would be a mistake. It sometimes seems as if the myth of HST the personality overshadows the talent evident in much of his work, and the popular image of Thompson as a dangerous space-cadet belies a varied and multi-layered canon.
Like Norman Mailer, with whom he shared a love of guns, booze and boxing, Thompson aspired to be a modern-day Hemingway – who also went to the great beyond courtesy of a self-inflicted gunshot wound – forever in pursuit of a new Great American Novel which was to remain elusive, although alongside the books Cox highlights The Rum Diary is a neglected gem.
Thompson is more associated with ‘gonzo’ journalism, rather than the novel, as his chosen form; a heady brew of anecdote, reportage and invective, and perfect for railing against the corruption and self-satisfaction of America, then and now. Thompson’s style was pretty much unheard of in the 60s as he made his name, and writers like Tom Wolfe and Mailer helped to develop what was termed ‘The New Journalism’, before the more recognisable moniker ‘gonzo’.
His works are, perhaps, not as much political, though they may superficially appear so, but more concerned with rather more abstract notions; good and evil, doom and destiny, loathing and self-loathing. Some of his best work is inspired by pure rage, whether it’s directed at editors who’ve stiffed him out of money; associates or enemies for some perceived slight; or his arch-nemesis Richard Nixon. His work driven primarily by spleen venting is often his funniest too – an overlooked facet of Thompson’s personality is that he was a very funny man, whether in attack or biting self-deprecation.
Thompson was also a ferocious letter-writer and his collected letters, published in several volumes, detail the development of raw young talent and raging ego to drug-addled hack to reclusive nut. There’s a fascinating portrait of Americana in these collections, from the great explosion of civil disobedience and civil rights legislation to Vietnam and the political fallout, through to Nixon’s demise and the new American Dream of the 80s.
Thompson’s legacy is especially important in today’s journalistic mire, where the American media is locked into a love affair with itself, The White House, and all things American. And in an United States where Dubya Bush can stroll to a second term, the need for Hunter Thompson is clearer than ever; an attack dog for the left, for the alternative community at a time when the conservative attack dogs in Washington or the Fox news offices or a hundred neo-Con blogs are in the ascendancy.
Thompson had apparently requested that his ashes be fired across his Colorado ranch “shot out of an upside-down, sculpted mushroom perched on a 150-foot-high, double-thumbed fist”. There’s a pleasing resonance to that.
Hunter S Thompson reading list:
The Rum Diary
Hell’s Angels
Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail
The Proud Highway: The Fear and Loathing Letters Volume 1
Fear and Loathing in America: The Brutal Odyssey of an Outlaw Journalist
