After the tsunami, slow news day syndrome

Now the waves have receded, the media are using the Fukushima nuclear plant to ramp up the fear fact

I remember 12 September 2001. I spent the day on a coach heading up to Liverpool for a football match, and all you could hear was the rustling of newspaper pages as people tried to parse the horrors of the terror attacks. For the first time in a while, I bought a newspaper; everybody did. At times like that, we turn to traditional media to help us explain the inexplicable.

We'd all been sitting, open-mouthed and incredulous, in front of the television the night before, attempting to process the images we were seeing. "It looked like something out of a film," came the refrain, time after time. It looked unreal because it was so shocking, but there it was, in front of our eyes. This wasn't entertainment: this was real horror, and it was hard to look away.

We've had a similar response to the awful events in Japan over the past few days. This was a disaster that, unlike previous natural phenomena causing huge losses of life, took place in daylight, in a developed country, with the news cameras rolling to capture everything and amateurs on the ground using high-quality cameraphones to record the unfolding tragedy. Never before has a disaster been caught on such a scale; the astonishing videos and incredible photographs still have the power to shock and dismay.

Even in this age of social media, where we may have encountered the story for the first time away from the mainstream, we have turned to newspapers and broadcasters to explain it all to us. "It looks like something out of a disaster movie," you hear time and again. But we know that it's not CGI; that those specks captured on film desperately running or driving from the tsunami are real people with real lives.

We turn to the media to help us when we find it hard to explain a story like the 11 September 2001 attacks, or the Japanese earthquake: when confronted with the evidence, the footage, the deaths on such a scale, we find it hard to deal with what we are seeing and hearing, and look to the village elders to explain. That's the strength of the old media, which have performed tremendously well in this crisis, but it's a weakness, too.

This excellent blog post at Xark helps explain why. Events like the Japanese tragedies, and other great losses of life, are thankfully rare. Extraordinary events elsewhere, such as the uprisings in the Middle East, are equally uncommon. It's not what the mainstream does during these times of crisis that is the problem – we all end up heading back to the BBC, or our favourite newspaper, to help us process what's going on – but what happens in between those times; what goes on during slow news days.

What it can lead to is a catastrophisation of the mundane in order to approximate a verisimilitude of those times when real disasters strike; to re-create that feeling of helplessness in the news consumer, that need to have things explained in the face of incomputable enormity. That's why you see health scares, cancer scares, weather scares, immigration scares and so on in the tabloids: it's an attempt to paint a picture of impending catastrophe, to tap in to your fear, to make you feel like you need these unfolding disasters explained.

With that in mind, it's worth noting that while broadcasters on the whole have been careful to portray the developing problems at the Fukushima nuclear plant – chilling though they are – in the context of more serious events, the tabloids have been a little bit keener to ramp up the fear factor. Slow news day syndrome is creeping back now that the waves have receded. A new disaster is needed, whether it's really there or not.

Patrolling the murkier waters of the mainstream media
Photo: André Spicer
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“It’s scary to do it again”: the five-year-old fined £150 for running a lemonade stand

Enforcement officers penalised a child selling home-made lemonade in the street. Her father tells the full story. 

It was a lively Saturday afternoon in east London’s Mile End. Groups of people streamed through residential streets on their way to a music festival in the local park; booming bass could be heard from the surrounding houses.

One five-year-old girl who lived in the area had an idea. She had been to her school’s summer fête recently and looked longingly at the stalls. She loved the idea of setting up her own stall, and today was a good day for it.

“She eventually came round to the idea of selling lemonade,” her father André Spicer tells me. So he and his daughter went to their local shop to buy some lemons. They mixed a few jugs of lemonade, the girl made a fetching A4 sign with some lemons drawn on it – 50p for a small cup, £1 for a large – and they carried a table from home to the end of their road. 

“People suddenly started coming up and buying stuff, pretty quickly, and they were very happy,” Spicer recalls. “People looked overjoyed at this cute little girl on the side of the road – community feel and all that sort of stuff.”

But the heart-warming scene was soon interrupted. After about half an hour of what Spicer describes as “brisk” trade – his daughter’s recipe secret was some mint and a little bit of cucumber, for a “bit of a British touch” – four enforcement officers came striding up to the stand.

Three were in uniform, and one was in plain clothes. One uniformed officer turned the camera on his vest on, and began reciting a legal script at the weeping five-year-old.

“You’re trading without a licence, pursuant to x, y, z act and blah dah dah dah, really going through a script,” Spicer tells me, saying they showed no compassion for his daughter. “This is my job, I’m doing it and that’s it, basically.”

The girl burst into tears the moment they arrived.

“Officials have some degree of intimidation. I’m a grown adult, so I wasn’t super intimidated, but I was a bit shocked,” says Spicer. “But my daughter was intimidated. She started crying straight away.”

As they continued to recite their legalese, her father picked her up to try to comfort her – but that didn’t stop the officers giving her stall a £150 fine and handing them a penalty notice. “TRADING WITHOUT LICENCE,” it screamed.


Picture: André Spicer

“She was crying and repeating, ‘I’ve done a bad thing’,” says Spicer. “As we walked home, I had to try and convince her that it wasn’t her, it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her who had done something bad.”

She cried all the way home, and it wasn’t until she watched her favourite film, Brave, that she calmed down. It was then that Spicer suggested next time they would “do it all correctly”, get a permit, and set up another stand.

“No, I don’t want to, it’s a bit scary to do it again,” she replied. Her father hopes that “she’ll be able to get over it”, and that her enterprising spirit will return.

The Council has since apologised and cancelled the fine, and called on its officials to “show common sense and to use their powers sensibly”.

But Spicer felt “there’s a bigger principle here”, and wrote a piece for the Telegraph arguing that children in modern Britain are too restricted.

He would “absolutely” encourage his daughter to set up another stall, and “I’d encourage other people to go and do it as well. It’s a great way to spend a bit of time with the kids in the holidays, and they might learn something.”

A fitting reminder of the great life lesson: when life gives you a fixed penalty notice, make lemonade.

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.