Blogging is better than Fleet Street Fox's journal of branding

Are there any bloggers who write stuff because they want to write stuff?

So Fleet Street Fox was someone called Susie Boniface all along. Who knew? Oh, everyone.

Apparently it’s a big deal that the formerly anonymous (while not being tremendously anonymous) blogger has outed herself and is now herself, rather than not being herself, while still being very much herself. (There’s a book out. I see.)

The mysterious Fleet Street Faux, it turns out, wasn’t all that mysterious to people in the know, despite claims that she would have lost her job if she had been unmasked. (I didn’t know, but I’ve never been in the know.)  Still, it was a nice branding exercise I guess.

FSF has shown vulpine cunning when it comes to spotting a gap in the market, though: there hasn’t been a half-articulate figure defending the tabloid press for ages. Kelvin "The Truth" Mackenzie clung on for as long as he could as the bluff, disingenuous voice of the common White Van Geezer who likes tits, football and right-wing views. The spivvy hack Paul McMullen cut a rather unloveable figure as he gamely attempted to defend the redtops at the height of Leveson, lurking in the shadows in his battered cream suit like a rather forlorn Sidney Stratton. That only leaves Janet Street-Porter to be wheeled out whenever you need a quote from someone to present the “I say let em crash” counterpoint which news programmes deem it necessary to provide as equivalence to anything slightly rational.

Enter FSF The Brand, then, to fill that void and tell us that we’ve got it all wrong, and the tabs are all right. At least Mackenzie isn’t getting on telly as much, but this well-trodden path from "anonymous insider" to "person who pops up on Newsnight with apparently surprising and contradictory opinions" has happened so many times now that it’s become a bit of a cliché. You see people all over the blogosphere painstakingly setting themselves up as these brands ahead of the long-anticipated big reveal.

It seems a far cry from the days when blogging was supposed to change the world; when we were part of some kind of glorious revolution in which the masses would finally take over control of the Fourth Estate. (I’m pretending, here, that there was some kind of golden age of blogging where it wasn’t a cavalcade of oddballs and losers, and we all wrote things out of the goodness of our hearts. Run with that, if you can.)

Perceptive readers may have noticed that I was an anonymous blogger myself. This is true, although I never really had any endgame in mind; I certainly have no desire to cover my genitals in chum and dangle them into the sharky waters of a career as a media pundit. I can think of few worse fates for me, or the rest of the world, than that.  

So what’s my problem? Well, for one thing I think blogging is about more than trying to get your face on telly. If you want to write, write; if you want to be famous, do something worthwhile. There’s a whole world of wonderful blogs and exciting writers out there who’ve been completely ignored by the mainstream by dint of their lack of self-promotion. I think that’s such a huge shame, because some of the very best writers around are online, and not necessarily shouting from the rooftops about how great they are.

Come on, we’re better than this. Blogging is better than the Guidos or the Fleet Street Foxes of this world. Surely there are bloggers who write stuff because they want to write stuff, not because they’d rather fashion some kind of cobbled-together media whack-a-mole career out of it. Please? Someone prove me wrong. 

Patrolling the murkier waters of the mainstream media

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5 scenarios that will definitely happen in Ukip Britain

The Ukip general election 2017 manifesto is out. 

On 8 June 2017, Ukip defied expectations and pulled off a 392 majority in the general election. Prime Minister Paul Nuttall swiftly enacted his manifesto pledges – all 63 pages of them.

Now, thanks to Ukip, Britons no longer have to worry about silly things like the EU and multiculturalism. But not everyone has managed to adjust immediately to the Brexit paradise.

1. The beekeeper

Tommy knew right away his bees weren’t happy. They were swarming all over him, buzzing like a razor on a rampage, ready to sting. It was just as well he was wearing his beekeeping suit.

Except, wait a minute? Hadn’t the new Ukip government banned face coverings? Tommy was proud of being a law-abiding citizen. As he slowly removed his protective helmet, he shouted a parting message to his wife: “Enjoy our British honey when I’m gone.”

2. The job

“Thanks for coming,” Martin said to the three job applicants sitting in the glass-walled office. “I’m looking for someone who will be able to monitor the world’s FX markets, and identify any kind of insider trading.”

“I did my PhD in fraudulent FX and spent the last ten years tracking white collar criminals down,” said Gretchen.

“I’m a former trader who worked at three different central banks and makes my own beer on the side,” said Pierre.

“I’m young, unemployed, have no real qualifications to speak of and am under the age of 25,” said Stu. “I’m British.”

Martin shook Stu’s hand. “Welcome aboard,” he said.

3. The rescue

Stanley dodged the falling buildings as he made his way to the harbour, where a red-faced man in khaki was standing looking confused.

“Have you brought vital supplies?” Stanley shouted over the rumble of the earthquake.

“I’m from Britain and I’ve got nosh,” the man said.

“Nosh?” Stanley repeated. “What kind of country sends snacks to an impoverished country in the middle of an earthquake?”

“It’s the Naval Ocean-Going Surgical Hospital,” the man said. “We scrapped our foreign aid target.”

“Oh fuck off,” said Stanley.

4. The family

Helen knew something was different as soon as she stepped inside her parents’ house. “What have you changed this time?” she asked her octogenarian mother. “Is it the cushions? Did you give the door a fresh coat of paint?”

“No, darling,” her father said. “We just installed a sauna and hot tub complex along with an outdoor pool.”

Helen scratched her head. “I know Ukip has kept the triple lock pension guarantee,” she said. “But how can you possibly afford it?”

Her parents giggled so hard Helen began to worry they were having seizures. “Haven’t you heard of inheritable mortgages?” her mother managed to say. “One day, all this debt will be yours.”

5. The clouds

Ronald rubbed his eyes, and peered through the window again. No, he wasn’t seeing things. There was no sun. He stepped out of the house and stared at the sky. Where the bloody hell was it?

Then he remembered the referendum the month before. It had asked Gibraltarians if they wanted to be truly British, and he had ticked yes.

It began to rain.

Julia Rampen is the digital news editor of the New Statesman (previously editor of The Staggers, The New Statesman's online rolling politics blog). She has also been deputy editor at Mirror Money Online and has worked as a financial journalist for several trade magazines. 

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