Journalists do what they’re told – or face the consequences

Do we all stand up to managers when they make us do something we know is wrong, or do we keep our he

The resignation letter from the ex-Daily Star journalist Richard Peppiatt, complaining about an anti-Muslim agenda that many of us have suspected for some time, raises a few ethical questions. Would you fold your arms and tell your boss you refused to do a story that you found morally wrong, or which went contrary to the tenets of your profession? Or would you get on with it, knowing you were representing distortion as the truth?

Peppiatt's letter appears to confirm what a lot of us have suspected for some time: that the seedier end of tabloid reporting is a world not so much of grafting in the mud for jewels but plucking stories out of thin air (or, as Peppiatt memorably puts it when describing a celebrity revelation about Kelly Brook, "I simply plucked it out of my arse".) He says journalists concocted tales about Muslims, for example about Muslim-only taxpayer-funded public loos, knowing they were nothing of the sort.

I know a lot of people will wonder how Peppiatt could have stuck it out for so long, or why he decided to put his byline to some deeply unpleasant stories that he admits have fanned the flames of prejudice in the first place. He says: "I was too scared for my career, and my bank balance, to refuse." It's a refrain that many of us will find familiar.

Before anyone rushes to judge Peppiatt or suggest he should have got out earlier, we should reflect on our own experiences in a corporate environment – not necessarily journalism, but anywhere. Do we all boldly stand up to managers when they tell us to do something that we know is wrong and counterproductive? Or do we try to keep our heads down, not wanting to be seen as bolshie, hoping that our compliance might give us a reward somewhere further down the line?

We've got bills to pay; some of us have children to look after, too. It's not easy to say no to something when you know it'll mark you out as a troublemaker.

Ethical questions are another matter, of course. But journalists don't have any protection should they decide they'd rather not do a story they're told to cover by their managers. The NUJ has been seeking for some time to have a "conscience clause" for journalists who want to have the right to refuse an assignment they regard as being unethical and ensure their job stays safe at the same time. But I fear it won't ever happen.

Sadly,newspapers are the same as any other corporate environment: you do what you're told, or you face the consequences. You can take out a grievance – which will mark you down as someone never to be trusted ever again – or you can resign, and attempt the complex and stressful process of going to a tribunal. Either way, your career is over.

I suppose many of us would like to hope that, given the same set of circumstances, we would all bravely stand up to our bosses and defend our professional integrity; but then I think many of us would also secretly know that we would grit our teeth and do what we were told. We may call journalism a profession, or a craft, or a trade; but it's just a job, like any other – and jobs are pretty hard to come by right now. We should applaud anyone who's willing to make a stand.

Patrolling the murkier waters of the mainstream media
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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad