A certain style of reportage
The Daily Telegraph (the UK one, once the fiefdom of Canadian Wannabe Conrad Black and his freaky wife Babs) is the epitome of a particular approach to newsprint media.
It is the most overtly august of the British 'broadsheet' newspapers. Or in other words it is a rather lumpen read. The Daily Telegraph editorial line is essentially jingoistic; pandering to each and every perceived prejudice of the ill-educated over-monied middle classes - now living, trembling with fear of all things alien, within the confines of their gated estates.
The DT publishers and editors know their readers more thoroughly than their readers know themselves (or anything else for that matter). And so the DT caters to the secret as well as openly admitted tastes of it readers, it reaches out to probe and tickle their hidden and illicit little pleasures. Anything to save their readership the trouble and expense of having to tuck a copy of the News of the Screws inside the Sunday edition before carrying the whole salacious lot home.
By way of example of how it accomplishes this the DT doesn't cover the latest goings-on in the Big Brother house but rather it publishes the media's coverage and reaction to the latest goings-on in the Big Brother house - with detail of the actual goings-on in the Big Brother house provided only as useful background information for the assistance of otherwise ignorant readers who do not, of course, slum it with their feet up in front of anything so base, vulgar and uncultured. [Boy, did I just write three things that mean the same?] Bared tits are a bonus.
The DT doesn't cover the disgrace of Abi Titmuss, it covers the media's coverage of the disgrace of Abi Titmuss (with bared tits an added bonus.)
At this point I feel like screaming that something like 60% of the population have tits (including the overweight male element of the population with their man-boobs). And even most of the remainder of the population know what they look like (and feel like). And most have fed from them. Get over it.
The DT doesn't cover the difficulties of this celebrity or that with Colombian Marching Powder, it covers the media coverage. The DT doesn't publish the picture of Diana, Princess of DT Publisher's Bank Balances dying on the back seat of her wrecked car; it publishes the reaction of her two sons to the publication of the picture (with a censored version of the picture so that readers can appreciate the level of offensiveness). You get my point? I expect you do, 'cos I'm labouring it now.
The point of this, and yes there is one, is that one of my favourite reads has gone all DT on me. And I'm pissed (and amused at the same time) and thankful that he's taking his trike and pedalling off into the sunset for a month or thereabouts. Why on earth do I feel like singing the theme to The Aunty Jack Show as he goes?
It is the most overtly august of the British 'broadsheet' newspapers. Or in other words it is a rather lumpen read. The Daily Telegraph editorial line is essentially jingoistic; pandering to each and every perceived prejudice of the ill-educated over-monied middle classes - now living, trembling with fear of all things alien, within the confines of their gated estates.
The DT publishers and editors know their readers more thoroughly than their readers know themselves (or anything else for that matter). And so the DT caters to the secret as well as openly admitted tastes of it readers, it reaches out to probe and tickle their hidden and illicit little pleasures. Anything to save their readership the trouble and expense of having to tuck a copy of the News of the Screws inside the Sunday edition before carrying the whole salacious lot home.
By way of example of how it accomplishes this the DT doesn't cover the latest goings-on in the Big Brother house but rather it publishes the media's coverage and reaction to the latest goings-on in the Big Brother house - with detail of the actual goings-on in the Big Brother house provided only as useful background information for the assistance of otherwise ignorant readers who do not, of course, slum it with their feet up in front of anything so base, vulgar and uncultured. [Boy, did I just write three things that mean the same?] Bared tits are a bonus.
The DT doesn't cover the disgrace of Abi Titmuss, it covers the media's coverage of the disgrace of Abi Titmuss (with bared tits an added bonus.)
At this point I feel like screaming that something like 60% of the population have tits (including the overweight male element of the population with their man-boobs). And even most of the remainder of the population know what they look like (and feel like). And most have fed from them. Get over it.
The DT doesn't cover the difficulties of this celebrity or that with Colombian Marching Powder, it covers the media coverage. The DT doesn't publish the picture of Diana, Princess of DT Publisher's Bank Balances dying on the back seat of her wrecked car; it publishes the reaction of her two sons to the publication of the picture (with a censored version of the picture so that readers can appreciate the level of offensiveness). You get my point? I expect you do, 'cos I'm labouring it now.
The point of this, and yes there is one, is that one of my favourite reads has gone all DT on me. And I'm pissed (and amused at the same time) and thankful that he's taking his trike and pedalling off into the sunset for a month or thereabouts. Why on earth do I feel like singing the theme to The Aunty Jack Show as he goes?
posted by Enyo @ 11:27 pm
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