Monday 15 November 2010

Getting what you pay for

During the summer months gazing out of train window often inspired me to write. With the winter darkness upon us there is nothing to be seen but passing street lights and the reflections of fellow passengers. Denied my muse, instead I turn my attention to the plethora of free newspapers to fill my travelling hours.

It soon becomes apparent that, in the same way the paper is recycled for the following day's newsprint, so are the actual pieces of news. One morning's article in the Metro will appear practically word for word in the Evening Standard, and both articles will bear an uncanny resemblance to what is written in the online BBC News piece. In all likelihood the same piece of news will be served cold for breakfast the following morning.

I guess this highlights the death of traditional investigative journalism which, with more background and exclusive detail, would once have differentiated articles from one another. Like many of my generation I'm used to getting free news online, and find the idea of parting with cash for hardcopy news somewhat archaic. Perhaps there are no grounds for complaint when you're getting what you pay for.

Since distribution is free the papers are funded by advertisements, making every second page a full spread advert. My eyes to skip over adverts, deliberately out of focus. I resent their intrusive nature and the underlying premise that, given the right stimulus, I will trot obediently down to the shops to buy whatever twaddle they're selling, like one of Pavlov's dogs. No thanks. Cognitive intelligence at work here. Look elsewhere for mindless consumerist drones. As it happens I'm not alone in my response to adverts, research shows we're collectively developing Ad Blindness.

Whichever free paper I happen to be reading, I typically only get half way through before abandoning ship. After a dozen pages of news, the articles deteriorate into a hodgepodge of Z-List gossip. Pretty people, ugly lives. It certainly isn't news, and definitely isn't anything I want to sully my mind with.

Having said that, a few months ago when George Michael crashed into the Snappy Snaps store, I did roar out loud at the picture of the accident site, where some wit had inked 'WHAM' on the wall at the point of impact.


Talk about nominative determinism at work. Priceless.
 

No comments:

Post a Comment