With so much around about abusive comments on online newspaper sites (misogyny, racism, homophobia), I thought perhaps I could have my say.
First, though, may I apologise in advance to those readers who concentrate on the actual newspaper, some of whom may be baffled, bored or both, by matters online? Not everyone lives and breathes every moment online. That said, some of these issues go beyond the medium into the realms of not only abuse, but also at times the degradation of an entire trade. And believe me when I say that if journalists want to be degraded, they can do it themselves.
I’m not going to pretend that I’m frightened or disturbed by online comments, because I’m not. For a start, I don’t see the really offensive ones (which are removed by the hard-working moderators). Moreover, I started out in music journalism, where it was commonplace to field complaints, arguments, even threats, from disgruntled bands, managers, publicists and fans who didn’t take kindly to your estimation that such and such artist’s latest effort was “glorified ear poo”.
After that apprenticeship, online nastiness seems very far away – a background, albeit toxic, hum. What does bother me is that other writers, especially female, gay or from an ethnic minority, may feel intimidated. And why wouldn’t they be? While I haven’t been the target of racist or homophobic abuse, I feel I know a little bit about misogyny. Know it? There have been times when I’ve felt I’ve showered in it, with sexism as my gritty soap and chauvinism my filthy flannel.
Then there’s the other more insidious form of intimidation – the attempts to make writers feel nervous about writing at all, most commonly with the assertion that anything written above the line (ABL) is “clickbait”, written purely to cause outrage and generate web traffic.
I’m confused by clickbait. Since when was using the most interesting idea available clickbait? What writer ever declared: “I’ve thought of something really dull – I must write it immediately”? What editor ever said: “What an interesting idea, but you mustn’t write it in case people read it”? No writer, no editor, that’s who. Clickbait is now such a prevalent, dominant term that you’d think you were living in some terrible clickbait era, when it is as it always was. Everything in a newspaper, from war reports to crossword puzzles, has always existed to be looked at by as many people as possible. In this new online era, this means that either everything is clickbait or nothing is.
Personally, I listen hard to my comment editor and… that’s your lot. I think it’s crucial to block out thoughts of any reaction, including online – neither to court nor be cowed by it. Otherwise, you’re either rising to the bait (Katie Hopkins syndrome?) or you end up being too spooked to write freely, qualifying your thoughts at every turn.
Who’s “baiting” whom anyway? Having largely avoided comments under my columns, I went back for a peek and let me tell you, I’m disappointed in some people’s behaviour. Some commenters only read the headline and comment on that. Others appear to require therapy to get over stuff I wrote ages ago (as the Disney heroine sang: let it go). Others still seem confused that there are usually three unconnected pieces to my column (sweeties, if you ever just once shelled out for the actual newspaper, you might be aware of the layout).
Elsewhere, there are accusations about straw men (finding fresh angles is part of a columnist’s job) and people who stereotype you as privileged (amusing, seeing I was dragged up in a council house). Then there are those who appear to view columns like mine as meeting places for misogynists who can’t spell “misogyny”.
And these are just the ones that haven’t been moderated – lord knows what horrors are lurking beneath those sinister, greyed-out areas. I’m no ABL diva (I don’t want the comments turned off), but I imagine other writers go through similar comment trajectories. At first, flattered (it’s all about me), then cynical (it’s not really about me), then confused (what is this about?), followed finally by resignation and brain blur. You get to the point where you feel that looking at comments is akin to falling down an Alice in Wonderland-style rabbit hole, only with razor blades sticking out of the wall, slashing at you as you tumble down. Surreal, painful and pointless.
And while I’m not intimidated, I’m furious that others might be. Nor would I deny a certain level of professional and personal embarrassment. I’m mortified about how hard the readers’ editor and the moderators have to work on my behalf. When I get sympathy from non-journalists, dealing with their embarrassment… is embarrassing. It says something that I’ve avoided showing my youngest daughter my column online. “This is Mummy’s job – being told she’s talentless, stupid, ugly and insane by hundreds of strangers every week.” I bet only sex workers hide their jobs from their children as much as I do.
I was shocked when I realised that “proper” journalists (not this music press arriviste) receive similar treatment. This is what I mean by the degradation of a trade – pretty much everyone getting their work and reputation mauled as a matter of course. Amid all this, the crucial point that too rarely gets a mention is that, love them or hate them, hacks put their names to what they write. While I’m not against pseudonyms, there’s a dark irony to watching people with aliases harassing writers who have at least put their bylines where their gobs are.
Is it hopeless? No. During my comment reconnaissance mission, under pieces I’d previously avoided, amid the toxic swamp and greyed-out abyss, it was heartening to see a lot of clever, interesting people conversing with one another, sometimes strongly disagreeing with something I’d said, but reasonably, normally, without resorting to insults. Thrilled, I thought: why can’t it always be like this? You tell me.
It’s getting ugly in the new battle of the bulge
A hotel restaurant in New Zealand has banned Lycra cycling shorts because of “unsightly” bulges, insisting that customers wear trousers. After I’d finished laughing and texting my (cyclist) partner, I was conflicted. Aren’t some cyclists already arrogant enough without hearing their bulges are too large?
These types already think they own the roads and pavements. To hear them harp on, you’d think they’d invented physical exercise. The ones who go on mountain rides are the worst, returning radiating such an evangelical smug glow that you would think that Moses himself had descended on to the cycling path to hand over the Ten Commandments.
So yes, some cyclists can be annoying. However, who cares if they sit their sweaty bottoms down in restaurants – and who’s staring so hard at the front anyway? Those shorts are usually padded at the back (to prevent chafing) and, teamed with the helmets, day-glo tops and clunky pedal shoes, they make wearers resemble giant deformed insects.
So if someone is choosing to ignore all that, to gawp at the front bulge instead, this may say more about them than it does about cyclists.
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