Why lefties don't buy newspapers

The tech savvy left don't buy papers.

Ever since Rupert Murdoch ousted the saintly Harold Evans from the editorship of The Times in defiance of his own pledges to safeguard the title's editorial independence 30 years ago - the Australian media magnate has been a bogeyman for the British left.

But while the left-wing media - led by The Guardian - has won a series of historic battles with the News Corp empire, it will lose the long war because young, tech-savvy lefties on the whole don't buy newspapers.

Lefties' hatred of Rupe was fuelled by his cheerleading support for Margaret Thatcher through the eighties, his brutal suppression of the unions when he moved News International to Wapping in 1986 and his continuing apparent use of media power to further his own political objectives.

Revenge has been sweet since The Guardian's Nick Davies and Amelia Hill lobbed the journalistic equivalent of a hand grenade into the boardroom of News International by breaking the news in July last year that the News of the World had hacked the mobile phone of a missing schoolgirl who was later found murdered.

Since then many on the left have rejoiced at each new woe to face Murdoch and the News Corp family:

The closure of Murdoch's market leading Sunday daily, the News of the World. The collapse of Murdoch's bid to cement his hold on the UK media by taking over BSkyB. The decapitation of his newspaper interests on both sides of the atlantic with the resignations of  Rebekah Wade and Les Hinton (with the former facing criminal charges). Dozens of former Sun and News of the World journalists arrested and facing possible trial over allegations of bribery and phone-hacking Rupert's own heir-apparent James, stepping down from his role as News Corp Europe and Asia boss, sent back to the US with his tail between his legs.

Rupert himself subject to lengthy public interrogations - first from MPs on the Culture Committee (remember the custard pie) and then by the Leveson Inquiry.

Murdoch's political power in the UK forever neutered. Just a year ago, James Murdoch exchanged matey text messages with an eager to please UK Culture Secretary. Today, I suspect most UK MPs would rather pick up a rabid squirrel then a mobile phone with text messages  which have emanated from News Corp.

The Guardian phone-hacking investigation was on the whole a journalistic tour de force. But unlike the Telegraph's MPs' Expenses investigation of 2009, there has been no corresponding uplift in sales. Whereas the Telegraph kept its MPs' Expenses scoops for print, The Guardian released all its biggest hacking scoops online at around 4pm on the eve of print publication in line with its digital-first strategy.

The Guardian's web traffic has continued to go through the roof over the last year. But like everyone else, The Guardian is largely so far replacing print pounds with online pennies.

The left-of-centre press has always been in a minority in the UK - but it is becoming even more so, possibly because young lefties are less like to buy a paper than older, more conservative readers.

Looking at the three left of centre dailies: The Guardian sold 367,000 copies a day five years ago, it now stands at 214,128; The Independent 249,536 versus 98,636 today; the Daily Mirror 1,537,243 versus 1,084,355.

Collectively that is a sales decline of 35 per cent.

Looking at the main right of centre dailies, the Daily Mail was selling 2,300,420 copies a day five years ago versus 1,991,275 today; the Daily Express 760,086 versus 568,628; the Daily Telegraph 898,817 versus 576,790; The Times 629,157 versus 393, 187 and The Sun 3,047,527 versus 2,624,008.

That's collectively a drop of 19.4 per cent. Even if you lump the 200,000 odd daily sales of politically neutral ‘i’ in with the left-wing press it doesn't move the dial much. You are looking at around 1.5m daily sales for left-wing papers versus more than four times that for the right-wing dailies.

And don't forget paid-for digital subscriptions to The Times and Sunday Times now stand at around 250,000.

On the left only The Guardian has journalistic fire power to match the Mail and assembled forces of News International. But its trust-fund millions (in the form of holdings in the likes of Emap and Autotrader) won’t last forever.

So the message for left-wingers who care about the media is this. Enjoy your moment of schadenfreude by all means and cheer on The Guardian and Nick Davies from the sidelines. But if you want to support the sort of campaigning journalism which brought this historic realignment of media power about - you need to take your smug grin down to the newsagents and buy a newspaper (or a magazine for that matter!).

Photograph: Getty Images

Dominic Ponsford is editor of Press Gazette

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Over a Martini with my mother, I decide I'd rather not talk Brexit

A drink with her reduces me to a nine-year-old boy recounting his cricketing triumphs.

To the Royal Academy with my mother. As well as being a very competent (ex-professional, on Broadway) singer, she is a talented artist, and has a good critical eye, albeit one more tolerant of the brighter shades of the spectrum than mine. I love the RA’s summer exhibition: it offers one the chance to be effortlessly superior about three times a minute.

“Goddammit,” she says, in her finest New York accent, after standing in front of a particularly wretched daub. The tone is one of some vexation: not quite locking-yourself-out-of-the-house vexed, but remembering-you’ve-left-your-wallet-behind-a-hundred-yards-from-the-house vexed. This helps us sort out at least one of the problems she has been facing since widowhood: she is going to get cracking with the painting again, and I am going to supply the titles.

I am not sure I have the satirical chops or shamelessness to come up with anything as dreadful as Dancing With the Dead in My Dreams (artwork number 688, something that would have shown a disturbing kind of promise if executed by an eight-year-old), or The End From: One Day This Glass Will Break (number 521; not too bad, actually), but we work out that if she does reasonably OK prints and charges £500 a pop for each plus £1,000 for the original – this being at the lower end of the price scale – then she’ll be able to come out well up on the deal. (The other solution to her loneliness: get a cat, and perhaps we are nudged in this direction by an amusing video installation of a cat drinking milk from a saucer which attracts an indulgent, medium-sized crowd.)

We wonder where to go for lunch. As a sizeable quantity of the art there seems to hark back to the 1960s in general, and the style of the film Yellow Submarine in particular, I suggest Langan’s Brasserie, which neither of us has been to for years. We order our customary Martinis. Well, she does, while I go through a silly monologue that runs: “I don’t think I’ll have a Martini, I have to write my column this afternoon, oh sod it, I’ll have a Martini.”

“So,” she says as they arrive, “how has life been treating you?”

Good question. How, indeed, has life been treating me? Most oddly, I have to say. These are strange times we live in, a bit strange even for me, and if we wake up on 24 June to find ourselves no longer in Europe and with Nigel Farage’s toadlike mug gurning at us from every newspaper in the land, then I’m off to Scotland, or the US, or at least strongly thinking about it. Not even Hunter S Thompson’s mantra – “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro” – will be enough to arm myself with, I fear.

The heart has been taking something of a pummelling, as close readers of this column may have gathered, but there is nothing like finding out that the person you fear you might be losing it to is probably going to vote Brexit to clear up that potential mess in a hurry. The heart may be stupid, but there are some things that will shake even that organ from its reverie. However, operating on a need-to-know basis, I feel my mother can do without this information, and I find myself talking about the cricket match I played on Sunday, the first half of which was spent standing watching our team get clouted out of the park, in rain not quite strong enough to take us off the field, but certainly strong enough to make us wet.

“Show me the way to go home,” I sang quietly to myself, “I’m tired and I want to go to bed,” etc. The second half of it, though, was spent first watching an astonishing, even by our standards, batting collapse, then going in at number seven . . . and making the top score for our team. OK, that score was 12, but still, it was the top score for our team, dammit.

The inner glow and sense of bien-être that this imparted on Sunday persists three days later as I write. And as I tell my mother the story – she has now lived long enough in this country, and absorbed enough of the game by osmosis, to know that 17 for five is a pretty piss-poor score – I realise I might as well be nine years old, and telling her of my successes on the pitch. Only, when I was nine, I had no such successes under my belt.

With age comes fearlessness: I don’t worry about the hard ball coming at me. Why should I? I’ve got a bloody bat, gloves, pads, the lot. The only things that scare me now are, as usual, dying alone, that jackanapes Farage, and bad art. 

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

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