In a development so predictable it could have been written by a hungover sub-editor on a deadline, global trust in news has plummeted to the level of a politician's promise. The Reuters Institute Digital News Report, that annual exercise in stating the bleeding obvious, has confirmed what anyone who's ever read a comments section already knew: nobody believes a word we write anymore. Unless, of course, it's about a royal corgi with a gastrointestinal complaint.
But wait. What's this? A lone figure emerges from the smog, tweed jacket flapping, notebook aloft. It is British journalism, the world's last honest profession, standing defiantly against the tide of fake news and algorithmic outrage. Yes, while the rest of the world sinks into a quagmire of clickbait and sponsored content, the UK's fourth estate remains a beacon of rectitude. Or so says the report, which I suspect was written by a chap who still thinks Fleet Street smells of printer's ink and integrity.
Let us examine this bastion. I refer, of course, to the hallowed institutions that brought you phone hacking, cash-for-questions, and the most egregious Brexit coverage this side of a pub argument. The same papers that employ columnists who believe the word 'nuance' is a foreign affectation and that 'balance' means giving equal weight to a scientist and a man who saw a ghost in a microwave. This is our bastion? A structure held together by libel lawyers and the faint hope that someone, somewhere, still cares about parish council meetings?
But the statistics are undeniable. British news is trusted by a staggering 47% of the populace, which in polling terms is a landslide. For context, that's roughly the same percentage of people who believe the moon landings were faked but are too polite to say so at dinner parties. We are the gold standard in a world of pyrite. The report notes that trust in news in the US has fallen to 29%, a figure that includes the man who thinks the illuminati are run by a cabal of hyper-intelligent squirrels. In Finland, trust is at 69%, but that's because they have saunas and a sensible education system.
What makes British journalism so special? Is it the unflinching commitment to truth, the rigorous fact-checking, the profound sense of public duty? No, it's the gin. We have perfected the art of writing under the influence, which lends a certain hazy authenticity to even the most preposterous claims. Our journalists are trained in the ancient art of the 'sources say', a phrase that allows us to print any old guff without consequence. And we have the most splendid euphemisms: 'tired and emotional' for drunk, 'robust exchange of views' for a screaming match, 'colourful language' for effing and blinding.
I write this from a pub near the Houses of Parliament, where the landlord has started serving a drink called 'The Leveson' (gin, tears, and a hint of remorse). Outside, a man in a rumpled suit is shouting about how the BBC is biased, while simultaneously using his phone to livestream his diatribe. This is the state of our nation's discourse. And yet, and yet. We endure. We persevere. Because deep down, beneath the cynicism and the hangovers, there is something noble about the pursuit of truth. Even if that truth is that most people would rather read about a Kardashian's latest cosmetic adventure than the finer points of fiscal policy.
So raise a glass of lukewarm Chardonnay to British journalism. We may be a crumbling edifice, but by God, we are our crumbling edifice. And if you don't trust us, well, I've got a bridge in London to sell you. It's a very nice bridge. I can get you a good price.
