Press releases erode newspapers’ credibility

Today’s news has been brought to you by the letters C and V.

The launch of Churnalism.com this week – and the Larry the Cat Facebook hoax with which Chris Atkins fooled the Daily Mail and BBC Radio Norfolk – have been met with a bit of a bristly snort from a few hacks, and it's pretty understandable. Hands up, all journalists who are absolutely certain they've never copied and pasted a press release that might, on reflection, have been a bit whiffy . . . anybody . . . no? No. We've all been there. There but for the grace of God, and all that.

But tell someone who's a punter rather than a journo that it's pretty standard practice to Ctrl+C and Ctrl+V huge chunks of a press release into a story, sometimes leaving the original words (and spelling mistakes) completely intact, but slap an intro on the top and then put your byline on it, as if you wrote it all, and you'll get a slightly different reaction. I call it the "Really?" face. People look at you as if to say: "Really? Is that what you do? And you expect me not to punch you in the face, really hard?"

Go on to tell them that the quotes in stories often aren't anything to do with patient phone calls to key contacts whom you've grilled like Paxman, but are, instead, also copied and pasted from a press release, and their withering "Really?" face will only intensify. Go further, and tell them that it's not entirely unheard of to go hopping around websites looking for stories, then slapping huge chunks of them into your story, making it seem as if you've interviewed the person concerned, before once again plopping your byline on top, and they'll start to develop something of a crinkly mouth. Or, even worse, a look of faint pity.

It's not just the tabloids, obviously. And not always the tabloids. And not everyone in the tabloids does this. And it's not necessarily always wrong, even if people are doing it. But that's a bit beside the point when you realise how non-journalists look upon this kind of thing. To those not steeped in the glorious craft it looks a bit, well, easy.

Everything else suddenly seems suspicious. If the fake Larry the Cat story got in, what else seems less than plausible? What about the fox cub that climbed a really tall building – by using the stairs, I hasten to add, rather than climbing up with little foxy crampons or parachuting from a passing stork? Is all that real? I suppose it might be, but I'm a little wary of stories involving foxes, for some reason.

Ah yes. And what of this week's new Twitter star Binkie, whose delightfully posh wedding plans have now disappeared from the Telegraph's website? Is the whole thing a spoof, possibly designed to provoke class war, or is it just Binkie being Binkie, as only Binkie can be?

Sometimes I can't tell any more. And I suppose that's the problem. A bit of Ctrl+C and Cntrl+V here, a bit of non-checking there? It's nothing deadly serious; of course it isn't. No one died because a corny old press release got lobbed into a newspaper. But that's not the problem that punters have with this kind of thing. It erodes the credibility of everything around it, I think.

At least, that's what the press release says, anyway.

Patrolling the murkier waters of the mainstream media
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“It was like a religious ceremony”: What happened at Big Ben’s final bong?

Both inside and outside Parliament, people gathered to hear the clock’s final midday chime before undergoing repairs.

“It’s just hacks everywhere,” a photographer sighs, jamming his lens through a gap in Parliament’s railings to try and get a closer look.

New Palace Yard, Parliament’s courtyard directly below Big Ben, is filling with amused-looking journalists, waiting for the MPs who have promised to hold a “silent vigil”, heads bowed, to mark Big Ben’s final chime before four years of silence while the tower’s repaired.

About four of them turn up. Two by accident.

It’s five minutes to twelve. Tourists are gathering outside Westminster Tube, as tourists do best. A bigger crowd fills Parliament Square. More people than expected congregate outside, even if it’s the opposite within the Palace. The world and his phone are gazing up at the sad, resigned clock face.


“It’s quite controversial, isn’t it?” one elderly woman in an anorak asks her friend. They shrug and walk off. “Do you know what is this?” an Italian tourist politely asks the tiny press pack, gesturing to the courtyard. No one replies. It’s a good question.

“This is the last time,” says another tourist, elated, Instagram-poised.

“DING DONG DING DONG,” the old bell begins.

Heads down, phones up.


It finishes the on-the-hour tune for the last time, and then gives its much-anticipated resignation statement:

“BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG.”

Applause, cheers, and even some tears.


But while the silly-seasoned journalists snigger, the crowd is enthusiastic.

“It’s quite emotional,” says David Lear, a 52-year-old carer from Essex, who came up to London today with his work and waited 45 minutes beneath Big Ben to hear it chime.

He feels “very, very sad” that the bell is falling silent, and finds the MPs’ vigil respectful. “I think lots of people feel quite strongly about it. I don’t know why they’re doing it. During the war it carries on, and then they turn it off for a health and safety reason.”

“I don’t know why they can’t have some speakers half way down it and just play the chime,” he adds. “So many tourists come especially to listen to the chime, they gather round here, getting ready for it to go – and they’re going to switch it off. It’s crazy.”

Indeed, most of the surrounding crowd appears to be made up of tourists. “I think that it was gorgeous, because I’ve never heard him,” smiles Cora, an 18-year-old German tourist. “It was a great experience.”

An Australian couple in their sixties called Jane and Gary are visiting London for a week. “It was like a religious ceremony, everybody went quiet,” laughs Gary. “I hope they don’t forget where they put the keys to start it again in four years’ time.”

“When we first got here, the first thing we did was come to see it,” adds Jane, who is also positive about the MPs who turned up to watch. “I think it’s good they showed a bit of respect. Because they don’t usually show much respect, do they?”

And, as MPs mouthing off about Big Ben are challenged on their contrasting reactions to Grenfell, that is precisely the problem with an otherwise innocent show of sentimentality.

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.