New Nissan brand will split old and young

The young might think the box-like Datsun brand boring.

The news that Nissan is to bring back its Datsun brand for emerging world markets will be greeted differently depending on the age of the greeter.

Not seen in the UK for more than 30 years, and not likely to be back here for the foreseeable future, the Datsun brand will mean different things to different people. For those of an older persuasion it will be the brand that slammed another nail into the coffin of the British car industry by showing up British brands like Austin. For those of a slightly younger status, it will mean boring reliable boxes of the early 1980s, before the Nissan brand superseded Datsun in 1983.

But from 2014, Nissan wants its Datsun name to mean affordable budget cars for the masses in countries like India, Russia and Indonesia, where the cars, that are already under development, will be built. Nissan CEO Carlos Ghosn revealed his goal of “mobility for all”, targeting those people that currently ride motorbikes or used cars, but want a new one. Ghosn thinks Nissan is missing out on 40% of the market in those countries he’s aiming at, because Nissan cars aren’t cheap enough to appeal to less wealthy buyers.

Ghosn has a pedigree for masterminding such moves. Nissan’s sibling Renault, which Ghosn also heads, has achieved massive success with the Dacia brand across eastern Europe in particular. Originally conceived as a way of tapping into the less wealthy markets as a budget alternative to Renault, Dacia has been Europe’s fastest-growing brand for the last six years, achieved a Car of the Year shortlist and established itself in the tough German market thanks to appealing no-frills products launched at a time where wallets have come under almost unprecedented pressure. The European plan will be complete when Dacia launches into the UK early next year, something that wasn’t initially planned but brought on by the brand’s snowballing success.

But that doesn’t mean we’ll see Datsuns back in the UK for many years yet. Ghosn was keen to emphasis that Datsun is devised specifically for high-growth emerging markets, though response to being asked if it will be launched in Japan was to refuse to rule it out. “We’re business people,” he said. “We should never say never, but it’s not planned.”

The goal is to have a premium brand - Infiniti in Nissan’s case; a core mainstream one; and a budget alternative that means they don’t have to cheapen and damage the mainstream one to appeal to a lower-income audience. Starting with a brand recognised for strength and reliability, and bringing modern cheap cars onto the radar of buyers used to old-tech used models is a logical move, and one that could reap huge rewards for Nissan if Ghosn can repeat his Dacia success.

Paul Barker is group automotive editor at BusinessCar.co.uk.

Nissan Chairman, Getty images.

Paul Barker is group automotive editor at BusinessCar.co.uk.

Pexels
Show Hide image

Relive your worst experiences for $15 an hour: how confessional journalism exploits women writers

The women’s website Bustle asks its writers to fill out a checklist covering every possible personal angle; it puts a low-market value on their most intimate truths.

Let me tell you about the worst thing that ever happened to me, the most terrible thing I’ve ever done. Let me tell you everything there is to know about me, all the buried markers of self that live under my skin. OK not that one, and I’ll keep that one too. I have to have something left over, after all. Even so, I’ve written about being the May Queen at school, and the time I got flashed in an underpass; about having depression as a teenager, and the unplanned pregnancy that became my son.

Actually, I’ve written about that last one twice: my first successful pitch for a comment piece was a response to anti-abortion comments by the then-influential semi-thinker Phillip Blond. It was a kind of pitch I now refer to now as the “what I think about X as a Y”: what I think about abortion as a woman who had and chose to continue an unplanned pregnancy. Experience is capital, and in 2009, I used it to buy my way into writing.

It’s a standard route for women writers, but not usually as formalised as it is at women’s website Bustle, which (as Gawker reported last week) asks its writers to fill out a checklist covering every possible personal angle: “I see a therapist”, “I’ve had group sex (more than three)”, “I used to have a Fitbit but I don’t now”.

Every bit of what you are, granulated and packaged for easy dispersal through a range of stories. It’s an editorial approach that gives rise to a weird, impersonally-personal tone. “Five Reasons I’m Grateful For My Parents’ Divorce”, chirrups a listicle; “that’s why I tried anal sex in the first place”, trills a gif-heavy piece about the benefits of bumming.

That’s just the shallow end of the confessional genre. The ideal online women’s interest story combines a huge, life-changing disclosure with an empowering message. Like this, from xoJane: “I'm Finally Revealing My Name and Face As the Duke Porn Star” (the last line of that one is: “My name is Belle Knox, and I wear my Scarlet Letter with pride”). Or this, from Jezebel: “On Falling In and Out of Love With My Dad” (which concludes like this: “And to the victims of their abuse, I want to say what I have finally been able to understand myself: that my attraction, and what it led to, was not my fault”).

It’s tempting to think of this blend of prurience and uplift as a peculiar product of the internet, but it’s been a staple of women’s publishing forever: the covers of women’s magazines are full of lines like “Raped for 50p and a biscuit!” and “The groom who went ZOOM!” about a jilted bride, exactly as they were when I used to sneak them from my aunt’s magazine rack to read them as a child. The difference is that, in the trashy weeklies, there’s no pretence that trauma is the overture for a career. You get paid for your story, and someone else writes it up. The end.

At Bustle, the rate apparently runs to $90 for a six-hour shift. That feels like a low market value to put on your most intimate truths, especially when the follow-up success you’re investing in might never materialise. The author of the father-daughter incest story for Jezebel told a Slate writer that, despite the huge web traffic her confessional received, her subsequent pitches were ignored. Her journalistic career currently begins and ends with her very grimmest experience.

“Everything is copy” is the Nora Ephron line. But when she said it, she didn’t intend the disclosure economy we live in now. For Ephron, “everything is copy” meant claiming control: “When you slip on the banana peel, people laugh at you. But when you tell people you slipped on the banana peel, it’s your laugh. So you become the hero, rather than the victim of the joke.”

Does the aspiring writer plucked from an editor’s checklist to retail her own Worst Thing Ever get to call the banana skin her own?

The Bustle checklist suggests not. “Don’t put anything on here you don’t want to write about,” it stresses, before adding, “that said, you can always say ‘no’ . . . You might be too busy when an editor approaches you about possibly writing an identity post, or simply not interested, and that’s okay! We won’t be mad!”

Ticking the box basically puts you in a position of assumed consent, but which hopeful young woman would dare to set her boundaries too close when an editor tells her this could be good for her career? (Yes, I know this sounds a bit like a story of sexual harassment. Funny, that.)

So many confessionalist pieces of writing tell stories about women having their limits overridden. Rape and coercion. Abuse and assault. Being talked over and ignored. But the logic of the perpetual confession journalism machine is the same: everything about a woman should be available to use, nothing a woman has to say is valid without a personal claim to authority, repackage their guts as shiny sausages and call it an “identity piece”.

Women writers shouldn’t be waiting for permission to say no. We need to tell our stories on our own terms, and we need to set better terms than $15 an hour and the hope of some exposure. The worst thing that ever happened to me? It’s mine. I’m keeping it.

Sarah Ditum is a journalist who writes regularly for the Guardian, New Statesman and others. Her website is here.