THE vast, vast majority of what is produced under the banner of ‘journalism’ in the modern era is a pointless waste of energy. You know this, I know this and we probably don’t need to be any more specific about the people involved, who also generally know this. Some of them know it profoundly enough that they are compelled to try and become part of the tiny, tiny minority of journalism which isn’t like this: exposés, investigations and exercises which involve venturing outside one’s comfort zone to tell a story for the public good.
You may have been staggered by the courage of writers like Roberto Saviano or Antonio Salas, who’ve gone undercover with some of the world’s most dangerous men and now live under ceaseless police protection. Few could countenance this lifestyle, let alone pull it off. Lower-risk acts of journalistic infiltration are however available, such as the ‘writer spends time masquerading as someone from a different background to them, for the purpose of understanding their struggle’ subgenre. Non-Muslim women have spent time wearing a hijab or burka for articles – Liz Jones donned the latter with predictably wretched results – while other hacks have waxed alarmed at their experience living on a drastically, if artifically, limited food budget.
Around 15 years ago the Guardian’s Polly Toynbee took on a series of minimum wage jobs and a council flat, a polemical book called Hard Work resulting from the experience. It’s the prototype, deliberately or not, for a new addition to this canon – Hired by James Bloodworth, in which he spends six months ‘undercover’ (tempting to wonder if this was really necessary) doing some recent iterations of shitwork, like Amazon shelf-stacking and Uber driving. His intentions were noble, of course, although not enough to jack in his journalism gig and remain at any of the latter-day coalfaces. That wouldn’t be so much noble as stupid. Right?
This is what grates about these assignments, on principle (Bloodworth’s book isn’t published until next year, and I’m not saying it’ll be devoid of insight): the scenario is always ultimately artificial. The desperation and despair you might feel is leavened by the knowledge that it’s not terminal – if you called your editor they could stop it all. Or, alternatively, cheap hackery in other people’s misery. Why, then, do publishers and the like consider members of the media class better placed to write about these things than people who do it as their actual jobs?
The generous answer is that one has already proven their ability. The cynical answer is that the writing industry is a classist, myopic racket that instinctively rewards people in its own image – or one that’ll change its ways for something marketable. A call-centre drone who somehow captured the public’s imagination, like Jack Monroe a few years back, could have a hit book on their hands, but until then, more elegant slumming is no doubt in the offing.
There’s one further, awkward irony, in the form of journalism’s current crossroads: much of it, the energy-wasting bulk, pays very poorly. Certainly not Toynbee, who is infamously well remunerated for writing columns about missing New Labour, but lower down the food chain, it can be tough to get by on its wages, especially in larger cities. This has led not to a reclassification of the profession as service industry work, easily attainable to those from working class backgrounds, but to it becoming an all-but-closed shop to anyone whose parents can’t prop up their income, having already paid for them to get the required university degree. In fact, why has no-one done a ‘shelf-stacker goes undercover as a clickbait journo to experience their sadness’ satirical bit yet? Also, why am I giving away my good ideas at the end of my column?
ROO PESCOD (Le Public Space, Newport, Sun 3 Sept); CATTLE DECAPITATION (Fuel, Cardiff, Wed 6); CHARLY BLISS (Clwb Ifor Bach, Tue 12); LLWYBR LLAETHOG (Parrot, Carmarthen, Fri 15); HOGSLAYER, BONGCAULDRON, MADE OF TEETH and more (Cardiff Speaker Hire, Sat 16); SACRED PAWS (Cardiff Transport Club, Fri 22); STEVE IGNORANT’S SLICE OF LIFE (The Parrot, Fri 22) and WHITE MANNA plus DEEP HUM (The Moon, Mon 25).