Hacked Down

When I tell people I used to be a journalist, the first thing they usually say is "But D.C., I thought you knew who your dad is?" and we both have a good laugh. Because let’s face it, being a hack doesn't come with a good reputation these days – images of scruffy losers digging through Hugh Grant’s rubbish bin springing to mind.

The second thing they might say is "so why did you want to be a journalist?". Well, the thing is, as a young shitkicker, I very quickly worked out that I couldn't play football for squat. To be frank, I was as close to useless as could be. Despite being a good foot taller than everyone else, I was useless in the air, and my pace could be measured by watching landscapes erode. Not that any of this stopped John Terry, mind. Obviously my political views must have held me back. Ahem.

In a moment of clarity surprising in one so young, I decided that if I was never going to be good enough to run out at Old Trafford, I’d have to compensate by *knowing* more about the game than my peers, which I soon was able to say. At some point, someone must have suggested a good use of this, um, skill would be being a football journalist. Seemed logical enough at the time, and I set about it with what for me counts as gusto: just doing well enough in my exams to get the absolute minimum required to go study Journalism at uni.

In three years doing just that, the main thing I learnt was that I wasn't cut out to be a journalist. Concepts such as “house style” were repeatedly emphasised and I picked up very quickly that to get ahead in this game, the most important skill is to shut up and do as you’re told. Even in sports reporting, there’s an agenda beyond what seems a simple matter of writing about a football match.

Despite this loss of innocence, I still wound up spending two years of my life as a professional journalist. At the time, I figured that having spent so long being “trained” to do something, I may as well try to get some use out of my degree.

"So what’s it like?"
The first thing to state is that in 99.999% of working for a publishing company, the glamour is around the zero mark. Most hacks do not work in London for national newspapers. Most work for publications like local rags in nowhere towns or, as I did in the main part, those Business-to-Business magazines that Have I Got News For You like to take the piss out of. Bicycle Seat Sniffer Monthly, that kind of thing.

"So why did you quit?"
The best reason anyone should ever need – I was bored.

Well, bored and skint, really. Journalism is not a well paid way to earn money. My starting salary (albeit seven years ago to the day) was £10,500 a year. The weirdest part was that I had been earning the best part of £50 a week more in my previous job doing menial data inputting, a job that also involved a cheaper and shorter commute.

At first, it wasn't so bad. The editorial and design team was made up of good people and we had a positive atmosphere that made getting through the slog of deadline day a bit easier. I also got some assignments that I actually enjoyed working on and took such a great deal of satisfaction from that I still have the cuttings to this day.

Yet as is such in the industry, turnover is high, not helped by readership appearing to be getting lower. By the time I handed my cards in, I may have seen my salary to rise to £13,000, but I was doing the work of just about two people to earn it. One particular deadline day saw me leave at 2.30am. All part of the job, I know, but when I found myself back at the bus queue some four hours after getting home, I came to the conclusion my life needed to take a sharp turn in a different direction.

The final thing I get asked is “would you ever go back to it?”
To which I reply “no”, for two reasons. One is that I've been out of the game far too long now. As with a lot of jobs, the key is always contacts and experience, of which there are countless others out there with much better supplies of both.

Secondly, as I've stated on here before and is known by anyone with half a brain, print media is dying so fast that the priest is hovering outside waiting to give the last rites. Hence, the industry is still desperately trying to work out ways to make their online services work. Ian Hislop may sneer at the fine work that a lot of blogs do, but he is doubtless worried that the work Private Eye used to deal almost exclusively in is now also done by writers such as those on Tabloid Watch and Zelo Street – both with the advantage of instant publication and costing nothing to the reader.

Of course, I’m also more than aware I may not have had the talent and/or attitude to get ahead in the industry.

I’m quite happy writing this lil’ol blog and the odd thing for No Ripcord – the best thing of all about this medium is that there’s no editorialising. If someone on No Ripcord wants to say the new album by whatever landfill indie band is flavour of the month with the NME is a bucket of shite, then he’ll have the backing of his editor to do just so, not being at the mercy of advertising revenue to toe a certain line. Freedom to write whatever you like (within legal boundaries, of course y'honour) - it's bloody fantastic.