New Statesman announces record web traffic figures

NewStatesman.com is now Britain's biggest political website, with more than three million pageviews in the month of January.

The New Statesman is now Britain's biggest political website - just in time for the title's centenary.

The New Statesman, founded in 1913, was the first British periodical to go online - all the way back in 1995. In the last four years, since its relaunch, the website's traffic has risen sharply. It increased 231 per cent between the fourth quarter of 2009 and the first quarter of 2012.

Since then, traffic has risen another 44 per cent, and in January the site recorded 1.15 million monthly unique users and 3.35 million page impressions. 

This makes NewStatesman.com the country's biggest political website, far outstripping rivals such as The Spectator (350,000 monthly unique users); ProspectIainDale.com (which recorded around 250,000 monthly uniques in the heyday of its previous incarnation); Political Scrapbook, Labour List, Conservative Home and Guido Fawkes (which recorded 117,494 visitors in the week ending 2 February, compared with the New Statesman's 243,937 uniques).

The New Statesman's traffic growth has been driven by online-only scoops such as George Galloway's comments on rape and reporting such as Helen Lewis's investigation of the online abuse of blogger Anita Sarkeesian (with her initial blogs on the subject each attracting more than 160,000 views).

Alongside the site's core - the unmissable Staggers blog, edited by George Eaton - there are a range of distinctive voices writing regular blogs. The NS online mixes investigative reporting - such as David Allen Green's coverage of Julian Assange and the Nightjack case, and Alan White's series on outsourcing, The Shadow State - with witty, irreverent and incisive social commentary from writers such as The Vagenda, Alex Andreou and Glosswitch. The site has carved out its own online identity, which complements the print magazine but is distinct from it. 

The New Statesman currently publishes all its magazine content online, free a week after print publication. Often, these pieces - such as Steven Poole's essays on "neurobollocks" and "cyber-gurus", or Jemima Khan's piece on Wikileaks - attracted thousands of tweets, Facebook likes and other traffic through social networks such as StumbleUpon and Reddit. The New Statesman also recently launched a Tumblr page.

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She knew every trick to get a home visit – but this time I had come prepared

 Having been conned into another couple of fruitless house calls, I now parry the proffered symptoms and generally get to the heart of the matter on the phone.

I first came across Verenice a couple of years ago when I was on duty at the out-of-hours service.

“I’m a diabetic,” she told me, “and I’m feeling really poorly.” She detailed a litany of symptoms. I said I’d be round straight away.

What sounded worrying on the phone proved very different in Verenice’s smoke-fugged sitting room. She was comfortable and chatty, she had no fever or sign of illness, and her blood sugar was well controlled. In fact, she looked remarkably well. As I tried to draw the visit to a close, she began to regale me with complaints about her own GP: how he neglected her needs, dismissed her symptoms, refused to take her calls.

It sounded unlikely, but I listened sympathetically and with an open mind. Bit by bit, other professionals were brought into the frame: persecutory social workers, vindictive housing officers, corrupt policemen, and a particularly odious psychiatrist who’d had her locked up in hospital for months and had recently discharged her to live in this new, hateful bungalow.

By the time she had told me about her sit-in at the local newspaper’s offices – to try to force reporters to cover her story – and described her attempts to get arrested so that she could go to court and tell a judge about the whole saga, it was clear Verenice wasn’t interacting with the world in quite the same way as the rest of us.

It’s a delicate path to tread, extricating oneself from such a situation. The mental health issues could safely be left to her usual daytime team to follow up, so my task was to get out of the door without further inflaming the perceptions of neglect and maltreatment. It didn’t go too well to start with. Her voice got louder and louder: was I, too, going to do nothing to help? Couldn’t I see she was really ill? I’d be sorry when she didn’t wake up the next morning.

What worked fantastically was asking her what she actually wanted me to do. Her first stab – to get her rehoused to her old area as an emergency that evening – was so beyond the plausible that even she seemed able to accept my protestations of impotence. When I asked her again, suddenly all the heat went out of her voice. She said she didn’t think she had any food; could I get her something to eat? A swift check revealed a fridge and cupboards stocked with the basics. I gave her some menu suggestions, but drew the line at preparing the meal myself. By then, she seemed meekly willing to allow me to go.

We’ve had many out-of-hours conversations since. For all her strangeness, she is wily, and knows the medical gambits to play in order to trigger a home visit. Having been conned into another couple of fruitless house calls, I now parry the proffered symptoms and generally get to the heart of the matter on the phone. It usually revolves around food. Could I bring some bread and milk? She’s got no phone credit left; could I call the Chinese and order her a home delivery?

She came up on the screen again recently. I rang, and she spoke of excruciating ear pain, discharge and fever. I sighed, accepting defeat: with that story I’d no choice but to go round. Acting on an inkling, though, I popped to the drug cupboard first.

Predictably enough, when I arrived at Verenice’s I found her smiling away and puffing on a Benson, with a normal temperature, pristine ears and perfect blood glucose.

“Well,” I said, “whatever’s causing your ear to hurt is a medical mystery. Take some paracetamol and I’m sure it’ll be fine in the morning.”

There was a flash of triumph in her eyes. “Ah, but doctor, I haven’t got any. Could you –”

Before she could finish, I produced a pack of paracetamol from my pocket and dropped it on her lap. She looked at me with surprise and admiration. She may have suckered me round again, but I’d managed to second-guess her. I was back out of the door in under five minutes. A score-draw. 

Phil Whitaker is a GP and an award-winning author. His fifth novel, “Sister Sebastian’s Library”, will be published by Salt in September

This article first appeared in the 23 June 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Divided Britain