My 12 golden rules in a crisis

Here’s how Rupert and co might have handled things.

Every crisis is different and often a media storm in politics is different from a media storm in the corporate world. But there are some important rules to follow, so here is my check list. See if you think News International has managed to follow any of them so far:

1. Establish a clear decision making operation - UK-wide, or any other region around the world, ideally slightly distant from the ongoing delivery of the business itself. Perhaps News International have done just this but it is currently hard to tell.

2. Identify early on a credible talking head who has been media trained, someone who demonstrates they understand the problem and can roll with the punches - not someone on the defensive.

3. Get good independent advice both PR and legal. If you are in a media storm your decision making will suffer, as will that of others inside the organisation because their jobs are on the line. And ensure that the independent advisers are sufficiently senior to tell the people at the very top of the organisation what to do.

4. If someone/anyone has suffered as a result of your actions, show empathy from the very top of the organisation.

5. If you are door stepped or on camera think in advance about the image - look and sound serious, and be polite. So far James Murdoch with a body guard in a yellow jacket and Rupert Murdoch and Rebecca Wade grinning off to dinner (see point 3 about empathy) have completely failed this test. The best role model? Bill Clinton. He was always polite, always friendly whatever the media storm.

6. The most important rule of all: establish what the truth is; decide how it will be told. Sounds easy but it's mission impossible in most organisations. Ultimately, the truth will get out so establish how you want it to be told and, above all, tell it. Do not allow it to seep out day by day, one painful revelation at a time - this keeps the crisis going.

7. An organisation in a crisis will leak so ensure that communication to all employees comes from the very top -- but assume that every word of it will get out. At the same time ensure highly effective communication with everyone in the company. That way they can become advocates alongside you.

8. There is some merit in doing the opposite of what your instincts tell you, so be more open and accessible, always be polite. There's a case study about a bank in the Netherlands which held daily press conferences. It may sound like madness but it put them back in the driving seat. An open approach would mean saying "yes" immediately to a Select Committee - or indeed offering to do it in advance. An open approach would mean Rupert Murdoch flying into London and asking to meet with Alan Rusbridger to see all the evidence and put his company right immediately. An open approach would be an offer to fund the judicial inquiry, or fund a trust to represent victims in a media storm.

9. Run a parallel investor relations operation and a parallel public affairs operation -- reassurance and communication with "stakeholders" are critical.

10. No-one is indispensible, however much you like them.

11. Most lawyers will tell you to say "no comment". Don't always assume in a media storm that is the right thing to do.

12. Say sorry. Say it quickly and keep saying it.

My guess is that some of this is happening. But many journalists are awful at crisis communications, especially when they are in the storm themselves. It is a very different experience when the microscope is turned on you. When you are in the media spotlight it distorts all rational thought - it is exhausting, feels never ending and all invasive.

Anyone reading this who has been followed by snappers, hustled on their doorstep, comforted loved ones after abuse has been shouted through their letter box or at school, followed everywhere by a motorbike, will know and understand what I am describing - logical decisions or the right decisions are tough in that environment.

Perhaps that explains why, as far as I can see, News International is, contrary to Rupert Murdoch's claims in the Wall Street Journal, struggling to handle this crisis.

Aside from the obvious "don't do it in the first place", have I missed any golden rules out? Please feel free to add some more.

 

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How Donald Trump is slouching towards the Republican nomination

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb.

In America, you can judge a crowd by its merchandise. Outside the Connecticut Convention Centre in Hartford, frail old men and brawny moms are selling “your Trump 45 football jerseys”, “your hats”, “your campaign buttons”. But the hottest item is a T-shirt bearing the slogan “Hillary sucks . . . but not like Monica!” and, on the back: “Trump that bitch!” Inside, beyond the checkpoint manned by the Transportation Security Administration and the secret service (“Good!” the man next to me says, when he sees the agents), is a family whose three kids, two of them girls, are wearing the Monica shirt.

Other people are content with the shirts they arrived in (“Waterboarding – baptising terrorists with freedom” and “If you don’t BLEED red, white and blue, take your bitch ass home!”). There are 80 chairs penned off for the elderly but everyone else is standing: guys in motorcycle and military gear, their arms folded; aspiring deal-makers, suited, on cellphones; giggling high-school fatsos, dressed fresh from the couch, grabbing M&M’s and Doritos from the movie-theatre-style concession stands. So many baseball hats; deep, bellicose chants of “Build the wall!” and “USA!”. (And, to the same rhythm, “Don-ald J!”)

A grizzled man in camouflage pants and combat boots, whose T-shirt – “Connecticut Militia III%” – confirms him as a member of the “patriot” movement, is talking to a zealous young girl in a short skirt, who came in dancing to “Uptown Girl”.

“Yeah, we were there for Operation American Spring,” he says. “Louis Farrakhan’s rally of hate . . .”

“And you’re a veteran?” she asks. “Thank you so much!”

Three hours will pass. A retired US marine will take the rostrum to growl, “God bless America – hoo-rah!”; “Uptown Girl” will play many more times (much like his speeches, Donald J’s playlist consists of a few items, repeated endlessly), before Trump finally looms in and asks the crowd: “Is this the greatest place on Earth?”

There was supposed to be a ceiling above which Trump’s popular support could not climb. Only a minority within a minority of Americans, it was assumed, could possibly be stupid enough to think a Trump presidency was a good idea. He won New Hampshire and South Carolina with over 30 per cent of the Republican vote, then took almost 46 per cent in Nevada. When he cleaned up on Super Tuesday in March, he was just shy of 50 per cent in Massachusetts; a week later, he took 47 per cent of the votes in Mississippi.

His rivals, who are useless individually, were meant to co-operate with each other and the national party to deny him the nomination. But Trump won four out of the five key states being contested on “Super-Duper Tuesday” on 15 March. Then, as talk turned to persuading and co-opting his delegates behind the scenes, Trump won New York with 60 per cent.

Now, the campaign is trying to present Trump as more “presidential”. According to his new manager, Paul Manafort, this requires him to appear in “more formal settings” – without, of course, diluting “the unique magic of Trump”. But whether or not he can resist denouncing the GOP and the “corrupt” primary system, and alluding to violence if he is baulked at at the convention, the new Trump will be much the same as the old.

Back in Hartford: “The Republicans wanna play cute with us, right? If I don’t make it, you’re gonna have millions of people that don’t vote for a Republican. They’re not gonna vote at all,” says Trump. “Hopefully that’s all, OK? Hopefully that’s all, but they’re very, very angry.”

This anger, which can supposedly be turned on anyone who gets in the way, has mainly been vented, so far, on the protesters who disrupt Trump’s rallies. “We’re not gonna be the dummies that lose all of our jobs now. We’re gonna be the smart ones. Oh, do you have one over there? There’s one of the dummies . . .”

There is a frenzied fluttering of Trump placards, off to his right. “Get ’em out! . . . Don’t hurt ’em – see how nice I am? . . . They really impede freedom of speech and it’s a disgrace. But the good news is, folks, it won’t be long. We’re just not taking it and it won’t be long.”

It is their removal by police, at Trump’s ostentatious behest, that causes the disruption, rather than the scarcely audible protesters. He seems to realise this, suddenly: “We should just let ’em . . . I’ll talk right over them, there’s no problem!” But it’s impossible to leave the protesters where they are, because it would not be safe. His crowd is too vicious.

Exit Trump, after exactly half an hour, inclusive of the many interruptions. His people seem uplifted but, out on the street, they are ambushed by a large counter-demonstration, with a booming drum and warlike banners and standards (“Black Lives Matter”; an image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, holding aloft Trump’s severed head). Here is the rest of the world, the real American world: young people, beautiful people, more female than male, every shade of skin colour. “F*** Donald Trump!” they chant.

After a horrified split-second, the Trump crowd, massively more numerous, rallies with “USA!” and – perplexingly, since one of the main themes of the speech it has just heard was the lack of jobs in Connecticut – “Get a job!” The two sides then mingle, unobstructed by police. Slanging matches break out that seem in every instance to humiliate the Trump supporter. “Go to college!” one demands. “Man, I am in college, I’m doin’ lovely!”

There is no violence, only this: some black boys are dancing, with liquid moves, to the sound of the drum. Four young Trump guys counter by stripping to their waists and jouncing around madly, their skin greenish-yellow under the street lights, screaming about the building of the wall. There was no alcohol inside; they’re drunk on whatever it is – the elixir of fascism, the unique magic of Trump. It’s a hyper but not at all happy drunk.

As with every other moment of the Trump campaign so far, it would have been merely some grade of the cringeworthy – the embarrassing, the revolting, the pitiful – were Trump not slouching closer and closer, with each of these moments, to his nomination. 

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism