After last week's effusive praise of a few random journos, it should be extremely clear which side of the argument this blog is on – we've got to congratulate each other, because no other fucker will. After all, it's not like we can rely on the public for it – at least 95 percent of the feedback from the public received by newsrooms are moans, complaints and general shit-talking.
It gets to the point that when people are nice about any kind of media coverage, it can actually be a little unsettling, like the disconcerting amount of praise that RNZ got for its recent coverage of the Kaikoura earthquake (although the sterling work of Vicki McKay, who was in the booth when the walls were shaking shortly after midnight, particularly deserves all the praise that was shoveled her way – listen to that moment when she is a few seconds into the shaking, and she catches her breath, and then swallows it, keeps calm and carries on – a moment all broadcast journalists aspire to).
According to one of the main characters in Whiplash - a movie about jazz drumming that actually manages to be tense and dramatic - the worst thing you can tell somebody is that they're doing a 'great job', under the awfully misguided belief that only great suffering creates great creativity. But it should be noted that the person who vomits this philosophy is a total fucking psychopath, and destroys a much younger person's life for the sake of a fucking drum solo. In the real world, that kind of brutal deconstruction just isn't necessary to produce great work.
There might have been plenty of old school Whiplash-type bastards in newsrooms in days gone past, but with the kind of workloads journos operate under now, and the desperate need for all parts of the newsroom to work together, they're fading away. Because if you act like an arrogant cock, you're just going to lose the respect of your staff, and word will quickly get around that you're a nightmare to work with.
Especially when you're working in a job that is so totally in the public eye, and so completely inundated in spite. Every reporter is subjected to ignorant and nasty trash talk at some point, and it's a daily goddamn ritual for the really good reporters, (although they can rest in the knowledge they are on the right track, if they're annoying people that much).
In that kind of environment, especially with the appalling pay rates and diabolical shift work, the tiniest bit of praise can go a long fucking way. And if nobody else is going to do it, we're going to do it ourselves, and anybody left sneering at all the self-congratulating can go get fucked.
Because the appreciation of your peers is such a sweet drink, and congratulations from people who know the unique pressures and difficulties of the modern newsrooms really do make a difference. Sometimes it's a public declaration on an anonymous blog run by a bunch of unknown shitheads, and sometimes it's a simple gesture, like the way Simon Collins personally congratulates a fellow reporter at the NZ Herald with a warm handshake for cracking a great story. It's always nice to know you're appreciated.
Sometimes the praise can be a little peculiar - the Canons sometimes throw up strange results, and give terrible columnists undeserved kudos, or actually think a callous boofhead like Whale Oil runs the best blog in the country, but an award, or even a nomination, can mean a lot to an individual journo.
Besides, there are awards and ceremonies for every goddamn industry - even the country's hardware stores compete to be the best among their peers - so any complaints about the insular nature of journos praising journos can be easily ignored. We all like to be loved
Next: Back to moaning about the scum.
- Steve Lombard
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