Pedant Alert

Taken outside a Bishop Auckland style emporium while on a trip to Wilkos. There’s so much wrong here I don’t quite know where to start.

Remember the days when you’d mutter ”tut tut tut” under your breath, pop into the shop and mention their slip up quietly to the gormless work experience girl behind the counter? You’d laugh it off before continuing on your merry way while she did precisely nothing.

Now, thanks to the joys of the internet you can photograph the evidence, send it round the world and embarrass the poor buggers to a global audience. Well that’s social media for you.

On the plus side, I guess that’s a decent price though.

Stairway To Heaven (because the lift’s out of order)

*slightly longer blog than usual because of university module requirements

Self reflection (the business end of action research) is frequently used as an emotional lever in the media. Broadcasters have for decades placed individuals in strange settings, set the cameras rolling, switched on the microphones and waited. Wife Swap and Big Brother are examples of this popular ’fish out of water’ production technique. 

Participants react in a variety of ways.  Some find weeks of self-reflection and self analysis a positive experience. Others are afflicted with a variety of feelings, some overwhelming, and unravel under the spotlight. The results can be revelatory, occasionally deeply uncomfortable.

One news story this week reported on the down side. It featured a decision by an individual to immerse himself into something he thought he knew about backfire. Grimsby Labour MP Austin Mitchell was one of four MPs from the main parties to spend a week living in some of the country’s troubled estates. He was embedded into a family on a Hull council estate as part of Channel 4’s ‘Tower Block of Commons’. 

Mitchell, with 33 years service as an MP, initially agreed to take part to put the case for council housing, a solid socialist principle and something close to his heart.

He wanted to see life on the inside, for himself, and for once not rely on lobbyists, commentators and perceptions partly formed by the media. Like all MPs willing to participate in the series he felt such an experience could develop into a call for action and a genuine lasting legacy.

From day one Mitchell- the oldest participating MP at 75- was going to adopt a different approach with one significant condition.  While the other parliamentarians were happy to sleep on the sofas in their families flats, Mitchell and his wife moved into their own flat on the estate.

There are no media reports suggesting problems during filming but last week while the series was midway through transmission Mitchell wrote on his blog that the series was a big mistake claiming the production company responsible for the programme didn’t want to plead for improved conditions for council tenants but had set out to humiliate him as a greedy and out of touch MP.

He wrote: “Press releases about the programme briefed against us from the start. Result? A deluge of abuse about MPs but nothing said about the neglect of council estates, the betrayal of council housing, the need for new builds and innovations, the plight of tenants penalised by poor facilities or the betrayal of Bevan’s vision of mixed communities by turning them into dumping grounds.

“A disgrace. To Channel 4 for putting it out. To Love Productions for its cynical distraction of the real story. To me for taking part in the first place. The bastards.”

His performance got a mixed reaction from his Grimsby constituents on their local newspaper website:

“Mitchell seemed to have no idea what happens in the real world. Hull has the same problems as Grimsby, so I would assume from this programme Mitchell has never interacted with local people and does not realise drugs are rife and lots of people live in appalling conditions.” Lesley, Clee

“He looked puzzled at the methadone treatment … I had no idea … he stuttered … and then asked where his Telegraph was! And this from a bloke who crows about his support and concern for the people of Grimsby? A town that is racked with heroin and other serious drug addiction. Well, I for one wasn’t surprised to see how false and out of touch he is. Thinly disguised disgust was evident on his face when he was “interacting” with the people he was with on the programme. He couldn’t get away fast enough could he?” Liza, Outathere

One key question arises from this episode. As a method of self reflection on an issue clearly close to his heart was reality television the best way for Mitchell to go about it? A former TV journalist,  he would surely know how commissioning and programming works. Taking MPs out of a privileged comfort zone into a tower block was always going to be a key area of content for the production team.

Mitchell’s constituency is Grimsby, down the coast from Hull. The readers comments would suggest similar housing issues there. If Mitchell wanted to know more about living conditions in run down estates it would seem clear that he could have done it any day of the week – quietly and out of the glare of the TV arc lights in his own back yard. He could have stayed as long as he wanted, absorbed everything and after suitable action research (such as speaking to residents, social services and local authorities) and self- reflection come up with a conclusion and some workable solutions. Instead he chose the TV reality show route. And ratings alone are not going to change living conditions.

This BBC news story on Mitchell’s comments: 

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk_politics/8518748.stm

programme details from broadcaster:

http://www.channel4.com/programmes/tower-block-of-commons

The MP’s website:

http://www.austinmitchell.org/blog

Comments on MP’s performance from the public:

http://www.thisisgrimsby.co.uk/news/m-MP/article-1798225-detail/article.html

OMG Elections Are Like So Uncool :(

  

*slightly longer blog than usual due to requirement of my university module. Please stay. It really is quite interesting  

Forget Spring, there’s the whiff of electioneering in the air. The Prime Minster bared his soul in a deeply uncomfortable appearance on  primetime TV (remember he once said he should be judged on policy and not personality) and MPs are all smiles when they meet you- a bit like the bin men at Christmas. 

It’s always an exciting time for the media. And it’s not just because of the overtime. Up and down the land plans and policies are being dusted down and updated with the prospect of new occupants at Number 10 adding a little extra spice. 

So what’s going to be different this time round? Well it’s all to do with us. Academics, commentators and analysts are currently knocking out reams of column inches in traditional print and online as they forecast the impact (or not) of what can be loosely termed ’social media’ on the General Election. 

The explosion in content sourced and created by you and I and shared across platforms such as Facebook, Twitter, Flickr and multiple other variations can be seen either as a genuinely alternative form of citizen journalism or a ‘fifth estate’ which complements what is already being provided by mainstream and traditional media. 

Many are scared by it. Many more are intrigued by its possibilities. For the established media the deep dilemma is controlling the content. Open the gatekeeping door just a little and the tide of video, audio, blogs, opinions and data can rapidly transform from exciting and alternative if occasionally random to overwhelming and heavy on resources. All agree on one thing. It cannot be ignored. 

For the BBC it is proving a taxing issue. Late last year the view from one senior executive could be summarised as ’proceed with caution’. And then last week another effectively told staff to ‘embrace or clear off’. Why this apparent divergence of viewpoints at such a high level, and only a few  months apart? 

There are two possibilities.  The first is the impending General Election. Social media could play a part for the first time in the UK and BBC execs need staff to be ready for it. The second is a gentle kick up the backside after an academic study (by one of its own staff) showed the BBC was lagging behind other major organisations in how it used this alternative content. 

Let’s deal with the first. Friends = votes. A simple but effective mantra for all strategists. It is now established that Barack Obama was swept to power partly because his team used social media in a more intelligent way than  adversary John McCain. On election day Obama had three million supporters on Facebook; McCain 600,000. Appointing Chris Hughes- co founder of Facebook, to his campaign team, undoubtedly helped. 

Obama ‘got’ Facebook while McCain’s team pretended not to care. One of his team memorably said ‘Facebook users aren’t McCain voters anyway’. Fact: there are 36 million Facebook users in America. 

While happily using established social networks the Obama team also created http://www.my.barackobama.com This gave them complete control over the content and the messages they wanted to put out. It was an intriguing mix of messaging centre, rallying tool and revenue raiser. Over 1 million joined. 

Obama used You Tube, Flickr and Twitter as well. With over 130,000 following his every tweet his team used it as a broadcast tool. They did not reply to any tweets sent their way. And it served a purpose. Obama stopped using Twitter once he was in the Oval Office. 

In terms of staff he had a core team of 11 which increased to over 30 as election day approached- working solely on online campaigning. 

So, what impact will social media have here on this election? On the BBCs College of Journalism website Claire Wardle  (link below) says there are fundamental differences in campaign culture, the political system and fundraising regulations between the two countries. And the candidate was special in so many ways. 

The key, she argues, could be empowerment. Obama’s campaign reached out to the grassroots who campaigned for him. They believed in him. They did his bidding. Here the main parties are still preaching to the faithful. She warns that ‘treating supporters as passive consumers of scripted one way campaign messages will have limited impact.’   

She worries that political coverage will be focussed on a cock-up….an unguarded or ill-judged comment or moment by a candidate captured on a mobile phone and used for scurrilous purposes when what should be happening is that social media can provide new ways of reporting politics which might re-engage some voters. 

Savvy BBC staff will of course be ensuring the right people are being followed and alert to all the electronic twists and turns the election campaign could and will take.  This commitment to understanding and using content from outside their newsrooms was underlined by BBC’s new Head of Global News Peter Horrocks last week. And boy did he upset some with his rallying call which had all the grace and sensitivity of BNP minders. 

Until now the broadcaster has been very cautious about social media. In the BBC’s current Editorial Guidelines ’social media’ is mentioned only once- when Editors are warned to ‘consider the impact of re-use’. News supremo Helen Boaden- in November- said social media promised new possibilities but also opened ‘a can of worms’ . She said the corporation would ‘increasingly rely on specialists to slice through the gossip, trivia and opinion that can find a breeding ground on the internet’.   

Now Horrocks tells the team that social media “provides journalists with a wider range of opinion and gives them access to a whole range of voices” and warns them to effectively close the door on the way out if they fail to embrace the possibilities of Twitter and RSS feeds. 

The Guardian website was inundated with views.  One blogger wrote: 

‘BBC News: We now bring you some breaking news of an alleged explosion in Baghdad. @johnnyfudgeface on Twitter says “OMG just saw bom in market. WTF?” Some photographs have also been posted on Flickr but we can’t show you those. Now here’s some florist who wandered into the studio to give us his worthless opinion’  

Meanwhile another was more supportive: ‘crowd sourcing using Twitter would be just a fashionable buzz phrase were it not for the fact that it actually works. You genuinely get stories from this and it’s a neat way of keeping in touch with part of your audience. What we understand by the word ‘media’ is undergoing a huge transformation. It’s absolutely correct for Horrocks to encourage his people to keep abreast of where the audiences are and to engage with them on their terms.’  

So, a wake up call ahead of the election or simply a wake up call?  Late last year a chunky piece of research by BBC staffer Nic Newman (link below) compared the BBC with significant mainstream multi media publishers including CNN, The New York Times, The Telegraph and Guardian and examined their use of social media. It was not the most flattering of documents for the corporation. Too much navel gazing, not enough clear action (like CNN). 

It is of course not an easy one. Just how open to all should the BBC be? As a public service broadcaster there is perhaps extra pressure to ensure that anything which appears, from whatever source, should be verified and checked and not act as a shop window for every conspiracist and madman. One BBC staff member recently told me that to get too involved in social media would damage reputation and credibility because of the sheer amount of content which would need to be checked. 

My view….there’s a happy medium. Put simply provide great stories and they will come. They will want to discuss and share. Ultimately by creating content which is watchable, linkable and findable the BBC can be at the heart of this new generation of  multimedia multi sourced material. Horrocks knows this. His language was clumsy but the message was a clear one to those inside and, just as importantly, outside the corporation. 

Links:

The Guardian article

http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/pda/2010/feb/10/bbc-news-social-media

Claire Wardle’s BBC Blogs:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/journalism/blog/2010/02/will-social-media-change-campa.shtml

The academic study:

http://reutersinstitute.politics.ox.ac.uk/fileadmin/documents/Publications/The_rise_of_social_media_and_its_impact_on_mainstream_journalism.pdf

Help Needed To Build Global Recycling Picture Gallery

A favour….. I’m doing an MA at Teesside University. One of our modules is on ‘digital storytelling’ and we have decided to build a website on recycling (a big issue in this part of the world). As part of our website I’d like to pull together an international  recycling picture gallery….with people from across the globe standing by their wheelie bin/recycling boxes with a decent local background (not the inside of the garage!). Maybe your street or outside your house? Not fussed about the pose or standing/kneeling etc. Please send me a couple of jpegs plus a very brief idea of what you recycle and when to my home email address (theglovers100@btinternet.com). It is important I get examples from foreign climes. The more bizarre the better. Can you help or any contacts? If you could manage this I’d be very grateful. If this works it’ll look great.  Any probs you know where to find me. Thankyou.  PS I’m thinking of giving a prize for the photo with the most empty wine bottles!

Hate Mail

It is perhaps appropriate that on the day the boss of the Royal Mail jumps ship to ITV with the job only half done that I should experience some truly appalling customer service at my local Post Office to mark the occasion. I know he didn’t run the Post Office but for the purposes of this blog, he’ll do.

I am convinced your approach to filling in passport renewal forms mirrors your personality. Sloppy and carefree and it’s cruelly rejected; orderly and methodical and your form is accepted. That’s the way it is.

The forms are horrible. I have always been confused by them and have to give them my undivided attention. I have to really concentrate. Even the basic details such as spelling my own name bring me out in a cold sweat so anxious am I not to cross a line (literally) resulting in another 10 mile round trip to get another form. 

The whole process began at the weekend when I took the youngest to get his passport photos taken in the booth at The Asda.  I am saddened to report that the days of four individual photos (most with the chair at the wrong height creating an unsettling profile suggesting  dwarfism) and the inevitable ten minute wait outside the whiffy booth in a railway station for the slimy and smelly set of prints after much clunking and gurgling- are over.  

Nowadays electronic gizmos ensure your eyes are at the right level; there’s no choice of curtains and when you’re happy you press a button and that’s it. The lens clicks. Just once. And even then if you’re not happy you can have another go. And the wait for prints is less than a minute. Marvellous.

Then came the form filling. Spurning alcohol and in a quiet room upstairs I filled in all the sections relatively quickly (apart from having to nip to the family filing system to remind me the date of my marriage) and then dashed off to get it countersigned by a prominent local. My Doctor friend assured me she had completed  hundreds over the years and within a few minutes had done the necessary and signed the back of the photo. Job done.

And so to the Post Office. Joining a queue with as much personality and charisma as the collection area at Argos I was soon at the grille where the charmless operative scoured my form (remember I was paying for this ‘extra’). I was so confident of success I was writing out the cheque. But then a commotion behind the scenes. A hushed conversation. The form was passed back with the delightfully helpful  ”nope, won’t do” from the mouth of the charmless one. There was no light in her eyes. I switched to full flirt mode in the hope of rescuing the occasion but it was a lost cause. There would be no compromise….or customer service for that matter.

It turns out that My Doctor friend had committed the cardinal sin of one of the letters she’d written crossing a line. And there it was. A ten mile journey, parking charges, petrol, hassle, standing next to a smelly couple in a queue …all for nothing.

And so I have to do it all again tomorrow.

I love this country and all its mad ways and I wish few people ill. But I hope something terrible happens to her. Perhaps winged by a bus outside Wilkos. Does this make me a bad person?

A Demented Ferret Up A Drainpipe

One of the Borders proudest sons passed away today. Bill McLaren, along with quality knitwear and those nice sweeties Hawick Balls, summed up all that was great about the tight no nonsense community on the banks of the Teviot.  A proud Teri, he lived the dream for any Borderer, getting to watch rugby and not having to pay.  

When I started in journalism it was as a cub reporter for the Southern Reporter in Selkirk. Covering rugby was a given and most Saturdays were taken up at the Greenyards or Netherdale soaking up the old rivalries. I also covered the International matches, and the day before I’d go to Murrayfield to watch the squad going through their paces. Bill was always there, long camel coat, clipboard, a cheery word and a bag of sweeties to hand round.

At the time the game was amateur and the Scotland team was dominated by Borderers. I’m sure it made him proud, but he never showed it. He supported the team when the city teams started to dominate, money started to change hands and the game changed forever.

He was a legend and will be sadly missed.

Frozen Melon Balls

It happens once a year in our house. It involves a lot of pushing and pulling. There’s a lot of banging.  And everyone  involved gets very damp.

And sometimes the dogs get the leftovers.

I am of course talking about defrosting the freezer. It is dispiriting and morale-sapping, and in my case involves a potentially life threatening mix of boiling water,  live sockets and ignorance.

On the plus side there’s the intriguing prospect of discovering a long discarded treat. Tasty ice cream but with a surface so hard you need a pneumatic drill to break through.

There is a down side. The strange dark coloured meals in long forgotten containers begging the question as to why they were preserved in the first place.

There are usually two reasons for the ‘big defrost’ in our house.  A voluntary New Year economy drive to eat the lot and clear the decks  and the second is forced on you when the doors won’t close any more because the carefully cultivated iceberg which has enveloped the icetray like a see through triffid now has the bag of home grown gooseberries in its sights.

So yesterday I was put in charge of the defrost. My wife had seen me in action before and had made appropriate arrangements.  All other humans would be out, the pets elsewhere and  local A&E on standby.

This time I was going to tackle the job properly. In the garden shed I found the hand held water sprayer which normally enjoys a temperate and pleasant life in the greenhouse tending to the needs of the tomatoes and cucumbers.  It was filled with boiling water and so the assault got underway with me pretending it was a ray gun as I zapped the ice flakes on the grilles with a 12 inch jet of liquid.

It was going well…..apart from the huge pool of water now under the freezer. Kitchen tea towels and cloths were abandoned in favour of the kids beach towels.

Man versus machine. It was relentless. It went on for 45 minutes. And eventually the freezer was empty. It had been defeated. I was by now enduring some peculiar bodily extremes. One hand was virtually scalded from the boiling water flying everywhere while the other had frostbite from chipping the ice away. My M&S moccasin slippers were soaking.

Ignoring all health and safety considerations I chucked all the food – now a tad limp- back into the freezer and that was that.  Apart from what my wife described somewhat vaguely as ’non essentials’ which we would now have to eat.

And so you are more than welcome to come round to the house tonight to enjoy a starter of something small and grey which smells a bit fishy; a medley of main courses including some very old Lasagne which looks a bit like Piltdown Man’s face  followed by melon balls (could be used for golf) and some Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream (bring your own chisel).

Oh and don’t forget the wellies. The kitchen is still flooded.

 

When The Potatoes Ran Out

There comes a time when conditions become so bad – so unremittingly awful- that you have to find previously undiscovered inner strengths to help you get through it. Call it primeval, call it survival instinct, call it a circle of life kinda thing. And for a Scot, it presents the ultimate test. 

Two days ago we ran out of potatoes. This is the sort of unexpected mental torture which you don’t read about in newspapers or on Twitter. And I don’t think The One Show has done a special on it yet.

While we had paid particular attention to maintaining essential supplies such as wine  it would seem we had taken our eye off provisions you expect never to run out of.

I’d always thought pasta was mainly consumed by people who either couldn’t cook, or couldn’t be bothered to cook.  But pork chops, beans  and pasta? What sort of madness is that? I’m all for experimental cooking and new recipes but there just comes a time when you have to say no no no. Unless you’ve very hungry. And there’s a foot of snow outside.

My wife was very sympathetic to this highly sensitive issue. “Get it down you, caveman” as another spoonful of vermicelli was ladled onto the plate.

It was OK.

Thankfully a new batch of King Edwards have been secured at The Asda, and life has returned to normal.

Well not quite. One of the little reported side effects of all this bad weather for country types like me is what I’m calling ‘greenery deprivation’. It’s an affliction caused by a sudden and dramatic loss of anything of an olive hue. We miss it. It’s why we live in rural areas.  Apart from the unusual smells that is. As we enter our fourth week of ‘white hell’ (copyright all newspapers)  monochrome views still dominate and show no sign of giving up the green fields below quite yet.

There is an oasis of greenery. It’s under our trampoline. I’m thinking of hosting a party for those suffering from ‘greenery deprivation’. No tall people allowed though. We could drink cider and look at photographs taken last summer. Can you get scratch and sniff grass cuttings? That would be nice as well.

This current cold snap brings unexpected new tasks to while away an afternoon. We’re having parsnips tonight. Our parsnips. Nurtured in our soil since last May. There’s just one problem. I’m not quite sure where they are under the snow. A new and exciting garden adventure is taking shape. Hunt the root vegetable. Perhaps those still under the trampoline could help.

And there’s one new job to do. Hacking down icicles so enormous our house looks like it has jagged teeth on both sides. And these are proper icicles….the kind knocked up by Mexicans on a very poor day rate in the Disneyland back lot and tacked to buildings for their snow season in Orlando.

Must go, blackbirds are at the window requesting more food. Now where’s that boiled pasta when you need it. Maybe it’s a bit like Red Bull…it gives you wings.

Christmas

Hamsterley in winter

In an effort to make your holiday season go with a swing and remain problem free I have saved you all time and compiled a list of essentials to get you through it.  If followed carefully and to the letter you may make it to January without exploding or maiming a relative.  So grab a  pencil and notepad and away we go…. 

Nurofen (more than normal) 

Gaviscon 

Glenfiddich- the expensive one 

Batteries 

A family 

Heating oil 

A working TV 

Another working TV when you get sick of all your family and need some space 

The sound of children’s laughter 

Snow 

Sun 

Hugs under the mistletoe 

A shovel 

Sky HD+ 

A turkey 

Stilton 

Quality Street 

Party poppers 

Roast parsnips 

Sloe Gin 

Think that’s got it covered. Feel free to suggest more. 

Enjoy

YMC-Nile

This is going to be a very strange evening. Memories of drinking 14 cans of fizzy pop in two and a half hours; Rod Stewart’s ‘Sailing’ and a stolen moment with Emily Tangent behind a Nissen Hut in a Borders backwater fill my head.

I have just dropped off the eldest child (12) at his first disco which doesn’t involve jelly and ice cream. I am filled with all sorts of dark thoughts. What if he’s offered crack cocaine? Or even worse, the buffet only has turkey twizzlers? Can he beat 14 cans? How much Um Bongo can a child take before being rushed to A&E? Will the youthful hormones turn the screaming little oiks into a giddy mix of lord knows what and we’ll be choosing pink or blue and a nice hat in nine months time?

It’s OK though, It’s an official school event. So that’s all right then. Panic over. The teachers will be armed with cattleprods patrolling dark corners and the loos clipping adolescents round the ear if there’s any nonsense. Hang on though. I’ve just seen the two teachers go in. They are young and tanned. I think they may be an item. I fear the worst. Will their minds be on the job? 

And what about the vexed question of where to park.  Not for the first time I wonder how I can fill two and a half hours on a wet evening in Teesdale. Should I stay in the car park and wait? I’d have hated that. And these days what with stalking cases involving middle-aged men on the increase I may be arrested in a well planned Police raid after an anonymous call from inside the Hall. As I drive away in the squad car I see my eldest smiling and waving. Charming.

 But by the time I drive home it’ll be time to come back again. Maybe I’ll hover in a lay-by along the road and watch something on my laptop. That is also a terrible idea. I fear magistrates would want to make an example.

 The children eventually emerge and are high on….well…nothing but natural excitement. It’s a rare opportunity to be free of parents; school routines; homework and brothers and sisters. Dress code would appear from where I am sitting to be a tantalising mix of branded leisure chic meets Hannah Montana. A heady combination of teenage static; aftershave and exotic perfumes fill the air. I should be appalled. I am of course fantastically jealous. 

 In August 1976 I made my public debut on a dancefloor. Not wanting to become a grandmother too early in life mum had fitted the standard anti- female deterrents: tanktop,  elastic tie and bell bottoms which were hanging at what fashionistas would describe as “half-mast”. I was an irresistible hunk of lovin’.  But of course the disco fell along the usual lines- boys at one end throwing soggy Wotsits at each other, the girls at the other pointing at my trousers and giggling. And so the night passed.

Must go….. I can see movement in the bushes. My God it’s the teachers. Where’s my cattleprod?