My namesakes

I'm temporarily straying away from Online Journalism, which was the point of this blog, to present a selection of people on the internet with the same name as me.

1) (Smooth Robbie) "If I told you you have a beautiful body, would you hold it against me"
2) (Ginger Robbie) "Look closely into my eyes, do not become distracted by other items in the room"
3) (Happy Robbie) "Now you look like the kind of man that knows quality when he sees it".

Bestival

Just because it came out nicely, here's a photo of a festival the Prodigy might fit in better at (see previous rant).

Upsetting the middle men

Picture the scene - 35000 middle of the road, middle aged men from middlesex that listen to Virgin Radio to make them feel young, gathered at the Isle of Wight festival in 2006. In the last few years they've hummed their way through Bryan Adams, the Counting Crows and Travis. Snow Patrol and Starsailor were a big too loud last year, but they liked the singles. It's Friday night and they're ready to rock.

And then out step the Prodigy. Keith Flint screams obscenities for the first fifteen minutes. Everyone leaves.

The Prodigy? Now don't get me wrong, I like the Prodigy, but the last time I saw them they were absolutely filthy, both in their language and the noise they made. When I saw them they were supporting Guns 'n Roses, making for a fantastically surreal night.

Last year, Morrissey was announced at the festival. The result was a barrage of abuse on one of the festivals' forums, with most people seeing him as far too radical. When Virgin Radio announced he was to be replaced by Travis there was a sigh of relief from Volvo drivers around the country.

So if Morrissey is a bit controversial, what does that make the Prodigy?

The point is that my Mum is considering going to the Isle of Wight festival. Now, I should make it clear out that my Mum isn't a former hippy, she doesn't have tie-dye dresses and a nose piercing. My Mum's a Cliff Richard fan, and not even a very big fan anymore. She didn't even know who Sylvester Stallone was when I asked her (not that that's relevant to the festival, but it does give some idea of her only distant interest in popular culture). But my Mum told me she might "like the atmosphere" at the festival, or something like that, because everyone at work was talking about it.

I doubt she'll actually make it to the festival, but I'm tempted to try and talk her round, just so she will turn up and gasp as Smack My Bitch Up starts up.

Proper gander at a different profession

One of my possible career diversions is to become a press officer. And so it was with some curiosity that I listened in on a lecture on public relations.

I'm trying to work out where press officers sit - within what I see as the (usually) noble profession of journalism or within the mysterious world of public relations - of which, I have to admit I'm deeply suspicious of.

My suspicion mainly comes from an undergraduate lecture in which it was claimed that PR was given the name of Public Relations because the word 'propaganda' had got a bad reputation in World War 2.

Our lecturer suggested that journalists and public relations people should trust each other, but also provided a number of ways in which they manipulate each other and provide a threat to each other. It seemed to me that PR people wanted a better 'press', but weren't all that willing to fulfil their part of the bargain and become more transparent.

I was though impressed with the emphasis on accuracy that was pushed by the lecturer. The point was made that a journalist won't use a source that turns out to be false.

Most importantly though, I think I've concluded that press officers and PR officers often like each other, which suggests to me that a press officer spends most of their time as a journalist, and less of their time dealing with PR.

Knock knock

Although I should really get over it and shut-up, I feel I must mention Cardiff's successes at the Guardian Student Media Awards. In my defence, it is relevant to this blog because it was also the reason I missed the online lecture - which this blog is officially devoted to. However hard I tried there was no way I was going to get 18 wasted students to get up at the crack of dawn.

Anyway, as a minor consolation for missing the visit of the editor of Telegraph.co.uk, I did get my forehead in today's Guardian. Some sub-editor somewhere decided he'd crop just enough of the picture to cut me out. He had clearly used the 'rule of thirds' and decided that my eyeline wasn't appropriate. Or maybe I ran over his/her dog a few years ago and this is their angry retribution.

As regards something more appropriate, I had a useful chat with someone who had interviewed me some time ago, and who I've been hounding for feedback ever since (I didn't get the job by the way, though that's fairly obvious from my demand for feedback). One particular point came up in my feedback which struck me.

During the interview he had asked me how I would deal with door-knocking - would I be willing to chase after a parent whose child had died of meningitus the day before?

I stumbled around the question, having foolishly only planned for a different moral dilemma to answer. I considered my options: 1) play the hard-assed news hound role, who'll do anything for a story, or 2) pay attention to my instinct, which from personal experience was telling me that a grieving parent doesn't want a tripod and boom mic being set up in their front garden.

In the end I fumbled towards a compromise - I'd speak to the school, and anyone else that would speak to me, maybe health authority. I leaned towards option 2 though, and certainly not with as much assertion and confidence as I should have done. As I suspected, I didn't get the answer right.

OK, so he said there wasn't a right answer. But his view was that you should try and speak to the neighbour, the uncle, the grandparents or someone closely connected, and then if you think it's necessary, go for the parents.

His thinking was that for every 9 times that you're told to stop being such an ambulance-chasing parasite, there'll be one time where the parents are desperate to tell the press that the school have let them down, or something similar.

Alongside that argument, he said that competition has to be considered as well - if you didn't door knock, you could miss a massive story and you'll be one step behind.

Although door-knocking is certainly something that I've considered, it's still not something I've reached my own conclusion on. It's also one of the many factors that led me to broadcast journalism rather than print - my experience of local print was that door-knocking for a photo or a quote was a regular occurence, whereas in broadcast it's a rarity. So in a way, I skipped the issue - or so I thought.

In my view, it's a difficult line between working in the public interest, and working in the company's interest. With the first argument put forward by my interviewer (that they might be grateful), I can see his public service claim, and I'm inclined to agree. If the parent wants answers, the chances are that other parents will be affected.

But with the second point (that the realities of the industry mean that it's competitive, so these things have to be done), I'm not sure if that's a strong enough argument. It certainly won't help the public image of a media that invades privacy and devours other people's misery (not an image I agree with incidentally, by an image problem nonetheless).

Maybe I'm just a young innocent whippersnapper, only 6 weeks into journalism boot-camp, and only a few weeks real life experience, but once you take the position of doing things in the name of competition, it can lead you into a mirky place. And in my view, that mirky hole already contains a fair few print journalists.

Pictures are the easy way out

It's been too long since my last blog, Father. My in depth critique of the world of shorthand that I began to write is, I've decided, far too dull and self indulgent to make accessible to the wide(ish) world, so it will sit as a draft forever.

Tomorrow the former Gair Rhydd newspaper clique will head to the big city for a fancy awards ceremony, and I'm hoping that will provide plenty to write about regarding the state of journalism. It'll either be incredibly bitter as we return empty handed, or a triumphant discussion of why student journalism is the firm foundation of a strong democracy.

Until then, here's another blurry photo, this time of a motorway somewhere between Warminster and Otford.